


No Light

by Jejunus (JejuneSins)



Series: No Light [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Domestic Violence, Drugs, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gen, Graphic Descriptions of Burn Wounds, Graphic description of birth, Minor Character Death, Multi, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex, Psychological Trauma, Rough Sex, Trauma, Unhealthy Relationships, Unplanned Pregnancy, Violence, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-03-02 06:08:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 31
Words: 123,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18805279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JejuneSins/pseuds/Jejunus
Summary: After returning to Zion to tell Joshua Graham about the death of Caesar and his Legion, Courier-turned-proud-Leader Joan winds up staying in Zion for far longer than intended or expected as she tries to sort through her complicated feelings for the man that was once the Malpais Legate, and the ruthless tug-of-war relationship that they’ve developed together. As they repeatedly clash, a larger threat looms over the tranquility of Zion—a threat that Joan only thought she had eradicated.There’s a danger in getting everything you’ve ever wanted.This is an alternate ending for my series Learnin’ the Blues, a glimpse into what would have happened if just one event had transpired slightly differently. This work contains the first four chapters of my fic Which Way Are You Going (though they have been freshly edited and reworked to match my current writing abilities), so if you’re one of my prior readers, the fresh content begins at the end of Chapter Four.Though this is an alternate telling of Joan’s story, it is completely stand-alone and independent of my other series, and can be read with no prior knowledge of Learnin’ the Blues. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing it!





	1. Better Strangers

Chapter 1: Better Strangers

_I’m a thousand miles from danger if I make a better stranger of you_

        Zion. The valley sprawled out before Joan, as majestic as it had been the first time she set foot there. Nearly three weeks had elapsed since she left New Vegas, and she was still high from her victory at Hoover Dam. The Mojave—for now at least—was safe. The Fiends were spread thinner than ever, the Legion was back on their side of the Colorado and the Securitrons that patrolled Vegas now extended their reach into the furthest outskirts of Primm and the reconstruction of Nipton. Novac was resistant, but Joan would see them come around in time, ideally peacefully. Even Nellis Airforce Base hosted two Securitrons of its own; the Boomers had been less than enthusiastic about this change, but they would deal with it.

        The time was ripe for Joan to get out and stretch her legs again. With the Mojave as safe as it had likely ever been since even before the Great War, there was no better time for her to slip away. She had promised Cass, Boone and Arcade that she would be safe—against their combined better judgment—and that Yes Man would do a fine job supervising the Strip while she was gone for a month or two. The trip up north had been relatively safe, even for a woman traveling alone. The occasional small band of raiders and gangs had been easy enough to evade, and she’d only had to defend herself a handful of times during the entire journey. It went by much faster than it had before, when she had traveled with the Happy Trails Caravan.

        The afternoon air hung thick with fresh rainfall, causing Joan’s glasses to fog as she descended into the valley. It looked exactly as it had a few months prior: spires of rock jutted from the ground under a sky so richly blue that a prewar postcard would have been envious. The air here was fresher than in Vegas, sharp sage combined with a deep salty earthiness. The only thing Joan truly missed was the hubbub of Vegas—Zion was deathly silent. No sound of children running, gamblers boasting their wins and sobbing their losses; no Securitrons wheeling around trying to corral the lurching drunks that stumbled across the Strip. The only noises in Zion were the skittering of critters, an occasional distant Yao Guai roar; or if you were particularly keen of hearing, the light footsteps of a Sorrow. During her previous visit, Joan could have sworn she could hear the faint rush of her blood pumping through her veins as she rested in the Dead Horse’s camp at night.

        There were a few unfortunate things in Zion however, and Joan stood before them now: the desiccated corpses of Jed Masterson, Stella, and the rest of the Happy Trails Caravan. They were dried and picked clean, badly preserved by the scorched desert air and rainfall. Joan swept off her black desperado hat and mouthed a silent prayer as she passed them. It seemed a lifetime ago now, she thought, reflecting back on her first day in Zion. What had initially been a breath of fresh air to distract herself from the looming threat of the Legion seemed to crash and burn before it had even started. She had felt cursed for a moment then, as though the poison of Caesar’s Legion was destined to follow her wherever she went as Follows-Chalk explained the White Legs to her.

        Some time later Joan passed the small welcome shack that stood near the side of the main road, decorated with white handprints and still littered with cans and bottles, as if time had stood still since her last visit to the valley. She wondered if Follows-Chalk had ventured forth into the world yet. If he still sought the civilized lands he could do a lot worse than the Mojave, she thought. Perhaps she could convince him to come back with her.

        The rest of the walk passed easily. She only wandered off the path to the Eastern Virgin once, and she felt that she had done a rather good job considering that she didn’t have anyone to guide her this time. Like the welcome shack, the road remained unchanged. The heads on pikes—to her distaste—were still present, their flesh rotting and matted with flies in the late evening sun. The smell alone should be a strong enough deterrent for anyone daring to trespass, she thought as she hastily marched past them, her hand pressed protectively over her mouth and nose.

        During the course of her walk the sun had descended further and further into the sky before finally disappearing behind the looming red rock walls of the park, casting indigo shadows across the belly of the valley. Joan approached the small dock that stood above the creek leading to the Dead Horse’s camp. A hand painted sign stood next to it, and it read EASTERN VIRGIN in tall, thin letters. She looked up. The crude painting of Joshua Graham still glared down on her, its eyes burning red and bloody, arm thrust cruelly out over the small and helplessly depicted White Legs. She wondered how the Dead Horses had even managed to paint the horrendous thing, and what the man himself thought of his ghoulish depiction standing larger than life. She pulled her eyes away from it before kicking off her shoes, hoisting her pack firmly on her shoulders, and hiking up her skirt as far as modesty would allow before finally stepping into the smooth waters of the creek.

        It was tricky navigating the waters at dusk—more than once she noticed a trap only just before planting her foot right into the middle of it. She hugged the canyon walls as closely as she could, shining the light from her Pipboy on the gently lapping waters, praying to catch the glint of metal teeth before they caught her.

        As she drew closer to the camp a prickling sensation settled in her belly; she dropped to a crouch to stalk—as silently as she could manage, laden as she was—toward the enormous natural arch that opened into the cove. She switched off her Pipboy light and silently withdrew her sniper rifle from her back, setting her shoes down on a dry patch of dirt near the canyon wall. The scope on her sniper rifle was far stronger than any pair of binoculars she had ever come across and it served her well—from this vantage point she could spy at last the Dead Horse’s camp. Though the sun had set, they were busy; some were running laps from one end of the camp to the other, a few were engaged in sparring matches, others were performing rigorous pushups. They showed no signs of slowing down or stopping for the evening.

        Joan glanced at the time on her Pipboy. Though the days were growing longer, they were still rather short; it didn’t seem unthinkable that they would make the most of the daylight hours, she reasoned. She swept the muzzle of her rifle further down the banks and her breath caught in her throat.

        Joshua Graham was sitting close to the fire with his head bowed, consumed with his bible.

        She didn’t know exactly where she thought he ought to have been—the Angel Cave perhaps—but it caught her off guard that he was sitting so openly, one knee drawn up as he idly thumbed the pages of his bible. There was that strange titillating sensation within her again. She lowered her gun and placed it back into the holster she kept strapped to her back before quietly bending to scoop up her shoes again. It occurred to her that they likely had no idea she was in the valley; she hadn’t seen any Dead Horses during her walk, nor had she spied any Sorrows. The fluttery buzzing in her stomach gave way to apprehension and she prayed they wouldn’t open fire on her the instant she stepped out of the archway. She backtracked a few feet before splashing around as noisily as she could, stomping out into open cove and holding up her skirt with one hand while flailing her shoes around above her head with the other. She called out to the camp and hoped for the best.

        Joshua Graham’s head snapped up first, the Dead Horses following his lead immediately after. A bolt of panic shot through her as she saw his hand fly to his hip.

        “It’s Joan! It’s me,” she shouted. “Don’t shoot, please!” She let her skirt and shoes fall to the water and raised both hands in submission. Even from a distance she could see confusion and then realization blossom on the narrow strip of Joshua’s face that was unobscured by bandages before he visibly relaxed. He stood and gestured to the Dead Horses, saying something to them that she couldn’t hear; they resumed their exercises as Joshua waited patiently by the water’s edge for her. Joan retrieved her shoes before quickly wading through the rest of the inlet, stopping to wring out the hem of her skirt once she was on dry land once more.

        “What are you doing here?” Joshua asked, more pointed and direct than she had been anticipating. Joan hesitated, her hand darting to her neck to fiddle with the knot of her tie, self conscious.

        “I… I wanted to see how you were doing. To check in after everything,” she said. She let her hands fall lamely to her sides as Joshua stood before her. It struck her that this was an incredibly flimsy reason for making a three week long journey, alone, across nearly two-hundred miles, some of which had encompassed Legion controlled territory.

        “That’s very kind of you to check in on us, but it’s a long trip from the Mojave,” he said. Despite standing in the open cove Joan felt slightly smothered and resisted to urge to fuss with her tie again. She could feel the tips of her ears growing warm.

        “But where are my manners. Please, come inside the cave and sit down. I’m sure we have some food and water to spare,” Joshua said, stepping politely aside and motioning toward the Angel Cave. Joan walked quickly, passing through the entrance of the cave, glad that Joshua was behind her as she willed her face to return to a normal hue.

        Once they had proceeded further into the cave Joshua passed in front of her, leading her to the table he worked at. It was clean this evening: only a few guns were stacked neatly beside a small oil lamp. Behind the makeshift desk was his usual cinder block seat, and he drew up another for her on the other side of the table. Joan smiled; she admired how simply Joshua and the Dead Horses lived. She adored the splendor of Vegas, but the valley felt like a small safe cocoon, isolated from the Mojave and the rest of the wastes. She didn’t think she could ever give up civilized life, but if she had to choose somewhere to live besides New Vegas she thought she could do much worse than Zion. She took her seat as Joshua rustled around in a sack before fishing out a few bottles of purified water and a loaf of bread. He placed them on the table as neatly as he had placed his firearms.

        Joan thanked him before tucking in and the two made idle talk as she quickly ate her supper: the sharp rise in temperature, whether her trip had been a safe one, and finally rounding out to discussion of the Dead Horses.

        “Follows-Chalk is gone?” she asked. Joshua did not mirror her disappointment.

        “Yes. He took your advice and left to travel to the _civilized lands_ a week or so ago,” he said. Joan swallowed her bread, and it settled in her stomach heavily.

        “I would have invited him to come along with me. He was good to travel with when I visited before,” she said. “I could have helped him dip his toes in the water, you know?”

        “He made his choice,” Joshua said evenly. The uncomfortable feeling overcame Joan again and she couldn’t resist twiddling the buttons at her cuff. Eager to turn the conversation, she decided it was finally time to discuss her other reason for this trip. She cleared her throat and allowed a small smile to cross her face.

        “It’s a shame, because it’s very safe in the Mojave now,” she began, “because I’ve taken Hoover Dam. Caesar is dead.”

        Joshua’s eyebrows rose sharply at this revelation. Joan grinned.

        “I saw to it personally. Lucius, his Praetorian Guard, his entire camp; they’re all gone. Lanius fell at the Dam,” She sat straighter on her cinderblock slab, chin tilted high. “The Dam that _I_ won. From both the Legion _and_ the NCR.” The only imperfection in her bubble of pride was the one man who had unfortunately escaped her massacre of Caesar’s camp: Vulpes Inculta. She decided she would worry about him later though; she hadn’t seen a trace of him since the night she had activated the Securitrons at Fortification Hill. He could be dead now for all she knew.

        “I have to admit, it's hard to believe,” Joshua said quietly. His expression had turned somber and distant. Joan pressed on.

        “It was hard, of course,” she said, “They put up a hell of a fight.”

        “I’d be more surprised if they didn’t,” he replied.

        She regaled him with the story of the second battle for Hoover Dam, growing steadily more animated as she explained the highlights of the battle: the organized push into the Dam itself, Legionaries falling around her, the majestic sight of the Boomer’s plane dipping low and dropping bombs. The thrill of taking out Centurions with her sniper rifle, and the veritable hail of gunfire raining from every direction. A terrifying physical confrontation with a Legionary and how she’d managed to thwart him with only her knife. Then the final heroic break into the Legate’s Camp and Lanius’s final words.

        “It was exhilarating,” she reminisced fondly, her chin propped in one hand. Joshua had been watching her silently for some time. “I told him he had a nice mask—and how nice it would look hanging on my wall,” Joan continued smugly. Indeed it hung there now, all the way back at the Lucky 38: it was displayed prominently in the Presidential Suite as her trophy, splattered with Lanius’s dried and blackened blood.

        “It gets better,” she rushed on, spirited again. “After all that, General Oliver—Lee Oliver?” She didn’t wait for Joshua to respond. “He had to gall to show up and try to take credit for everything I had done. Everything I had done for the Mojave, all the work that _I_ put in. He wanted the Dam.”

        She paused, her smile turning vindictive.

        “He told me I should be hanged for expelling the NCR. Can you believe that? I was willing to let them have their percentage of power output from the Dam, to continue to let their soldiers furlough on the Strip, and he told me he would see me hanged.” She stared past Joshua, through the wall, and into the day the Dam was seized. In her mind’s eye she saw Oliver’s corpse, broken and splattered at the base of Hoover Dam as Yes Man cheerfully waved down at her.

        “I had to make an example out of him.”

        For the first time in a long while Joshua sat forward and studied her closely, his blackened hands laced in front of him.

        “I had to show the NCR that I was a force to be reckoned with,” she continued. “I had him thrown from the top of Hoover Dam.”

        Joshua sat motionless.

        “The NCR left after that. It’s been a hit to the businesses on the Strip, but,” she shrugged. “I did what I had to do.”

        “I see.”

        Joan felt the unwelcome prickle of unease return. Joshua’s pale blue eyes seemed to stare straight through her; she looked away before speaking again.

        “I just thought you should know what’s been going on.”

        “I can only hope Arizona and the tribes don’t suffer as the Legion falls apart around them,” he said after a lengthy pause.

        “You think they will fall apart?” she asked. Joshua turned pensive again.

        “I do,” he said. “The Legion falls with Caesar. Caesar…” he drifted off. “I still have a hard time wrapping my mind around it. After everything that happened, after all that we did together, after all that he did to me…”

        Joan studied him closely as it was now his turn to look through her into his own past; his eyes were distant and unreadable to her. Joan’s stomach tightened and she clasped her hands together. A part of her longed to reach out to him. She thought of the conversation they had had before she left Zion; she saw the same vulnerability in him now as she did then, when he had explained the extent and nature of what Caesar had done to him, and the pain that he still suffered to this day because of it. The tension in her stomach twisted as the terrible mental image came unbidden into her mind.

        Joshua falling, burning, into that dark chasm.

        “What does it feel like to be burned?”

        Joshua blinked, focusing on her again as if he were seeing her for the first time. His expression immediately darkened and something behind his eyes shifted. Mortification flooded over her and she turned a vivid shade of red.

        “I’m—oh God, I’m sorry, that was too forward,” she stammered, drawing back sharply as she realized she had been leaning toward him. “I didn’t mean to overstep—”

        Her voice died in her throat as Joshua Graham seized her hand. His grip was tight and with no concern for her comfort, red fingertips digging in deeply enough to turn the dimpled flesh around them white. She seemed to step outside of herself and watch as a ghostly third party as he trapped her hand in the air before roughly dragging the oil lamp between them. Distantly she felt her fingertips turn icy and her breath stall as he pulled the chimney from the base, exposing the thick cotton wick. The flame danced in the cool air. He jerked her hand forward with enough force that the rest of her came too, half standing awkwardly as the edge of the table dug into the tops of her thighs. Her heart began to pound, not faster, but much, much harder; her vision seemed to pulse with it. He plunged her forefinger into the flame.

        Initially she felt nothing. The flames licked around her finger with no more discomfort than if she had drawn her hand under warm running water. Joshua stared into the fire with an intensity she had only witnessed once before, at the Three Mary’s.

        Then sensation returned and with a cruel jolt she felt as one with her body again. The flesh of her forefinger began to sizzle and her brow pricked with sweat as a geyser of pain erupted in her finger. She inhaled sharply and her arm jerked, but Joshua held onto her steadfastly, crushing her small hand in his, red on white. Her back arched and she braced her free hand against the table, gritting her teeth as her heartbeat accelerated from a steady pounding to a galloping race inside her chest. The flesh of her forefinger began to bubble and turn white as a sickeningly sweet odor filled the air around them. She swallowed hard, feeling as though she couldn’t draw enough oxygen into her lungs, suffocating in the stench. Her stomach roiled. The pain did not increase linearly, instead lunging deeper and harder into her, as if not only her finger were being seared, but the rest of her hand, her arm; her entire body, burning bright in the darkness. She couldn’t stop herself from whimpering in pain as she finally struggled against him, trying to wrench her hand away from his. He seemed utterly unfazed as he restrained her with cruel tranquility, breathing steadily as though he were doing nothing more stimulating than scouring the filth from one of his guns.

        Sweat poured down Joan’s brow and into her eyes, stinging them as she gasped raggedly in thin, lightheaded shrieks. The flesh of her finger had turned from white to red and was charring black around the edges. She bore down hard enough on the table that her shoulder popped and finally she cried out, humiliated by the break in her voice.

        “ _Please_!”

        Joshua Graham’s eyes flicked upward for the first time, meeting hers. Her eyes were wet, terrified, and ringed red behind her glasses. His eyes dug into hers as he continued to hold her finger in the flame for another eternal moment before loosening his grip just enough to quickly envelop her hand with his, his long fingers pressing around hers. He closed their hands together in a fist, trapping the flames between Joan’s fingers and palm, and starving the fire of oxygen, extinguishing it. Darkness fell in the cave around them and he finally released her.

        Joan crashed backward, nearly falling off the ledge that Joshua’s table was perched on, and immediately jerked her hand to her chest as she shuddered and gasped. Joshua seemed to stare through her; his gaze was cold and impassive. Joan scrambled off the ledge and rushed to the mouth of the cavern before pausing to glance back at him. He was still sitting and staring forward, inanimate as a statue, and her feet pounded the rough stone as she tore down the corridor of the cave, trying not to stumble and fall.

        She slowed down to a fast walk as she reached the entrance of the Angel Cave. The cove was lit by moonlight now, and the fire in the center of the camp was reduced to dim coals. Several of the Dead Horses were finally winding down, their pushups sluggish; most of them were outright retired to their lean-tos. The few that were still active stared at her and they seemed unrecognizable to Joan.

        She wished Follows-Chalk hadn’t left.

        Joan made her way past the Dead Horses to the furthest edge of the cove, where the canyon wall met the slowly lapping waters of the Eastern Virgin, before falling to her knees and plunging her hand into the cold water. She gasped with the fragment of relief that it brought her finger before cautiously withdrawing it again. It turned her stomach to look at it: glistening and swollen, the skin was peeled back and charred around the edges, gaping and deep meaty red in the center. Like a burst dam, fluid rushed from the wound. Her shoulders shook and her breath hitched in short painful gasps as she settled back against the wall before tossing her hat off and clawing into her jacket with her uninjured hand. Clumsily she withdrew a roll of gauze and a small metal case. Swallowing hard, she unwound the bandages as steadily as she could manage. Within the metal case was what she truly wanted: several gleaming needles lined up and filled with Med-X. She knew she wouldn’t be able to properly apply the bandages to her finger if she was high, and fear of dirt and infection outweighed her desire for relief. Working quickly, she wrapped the gauze as tightly as she could withstand around the entirety of her finger. It was sloppy, but at least it was done.

        The pressure seemed to alleviate the pain somewhat, but she was eager for what would truly help; hastily she shoved the sleeves of her left arm up, not caring how much her suit was wrinkling. A series of familiar dots peppered the inside of her forearm. She popped the metal case open and withdrew the fullest syringe before sighing with comfort as the tip of the needle delved into the cleft of her arm. She depressed the plunger slowly, taking in every last drop the needle had to give.

        Within minutes all the aches and pains faded away: the tension in her neck, her throbbing shoulder, her stiff legs, and most importantly her finger. The digit was still uncomfortable, but it was significantly better than before. She leaned her head back against the canyon wall, closed her eyes and let the darkness take her.


	2. Hole in Your Heart

Chapter 2: Hole in Your Heart

_I felt the fire burning before I saw the smoke_

        Sunlight stabbed through Joan’s sunglasses into her parched and crusted eyes. She squeezed her eyes shut again, embracing the reddish darkness behind her eyelids. She dozed.

        A while later she cracked her dry eyes open once more. The sun was higher in the sky now, and she shoved her desperado hat back onto her head. Sluggishly she lifted her left arm, pulling her Pipboy up nearly to her nose to look at the time. It was just past noon.

        She let her arm fall to the ground before promptly leaning over and expelling the limited contents of her stomach onto the sand beside her, heaving and retching. It came in a few violent bursts and left her feeling shriveled and stringy when it was finally over. She groaned as she swiped at the viscous strands of saliva around her mouth with the back of her hand. Dizziness passed over her in a few erratic waves before she finally drew a flask of water from inside her jacket, desperate to wash the chalky grit from her teeth. She devoted a few minutes to cleaning herself up as best as she could and tried not to look at the yellow patch of vomit next to her as she hastily swept sand over it, wincing as her finger connected with the ground.

        A pair of snakeskin shoes appeared before her, startling her. Reflexively she pressed into the canyon wall as her eyes traveled upward—Joshua Graham was looking down at her, his eyebrows tilted up.

        “I’m surprised you’re still with us.”

        “I only just got here,” she replied hoarsely. Her throat felt as though she’d swallowed shards of glass. Joshua regarded her for a moment before stepping closer and dropping into a squat, offering his hand out to her.

        “May I see your hand?” he asked. Joan swallowed.

        “It’s fine,” she replied stiffly. His brows knitted together and his expression sharpened.

        “Give me your hand.”

        Joan looked away from him out over the water of the cove, her lips pressed into a thin line. She could sense his eyes on her in expectation, and could all but feel mounting annoyance rolling off of him. She relented and held out her injured hand.

        He grasped her hand, gently this time, and Joan tried to ignore the fluttering in her stomach as he appraised it, flipping it over and inspecting her fingers and palm. She continued to stare out, looking anywhere but at him.

        “You did an alright job bandaging it,” he said. “Would you like me to clean it for you?”

        Joan despised the pink flush creeping up her neck and hesitated. He pressed on.

        “You should let me show you how to clean it properly—you don’t want it to become infected,” he said. Joan pursed her lips once again. He was right.

        She nodded silently and he drew himself up to his feet again, lifting her up with him. Her legs were shaky and stiff after being awkwardly thrust out all night. The Med-X had worn off hours ago—her finger pulsed with pain to the rhythm of her heartbeat beneath the tight bandages. He led her a few yards down the bank before sitting cross-legged on the sand and beckoning her to join him; smoothing out her skirt, she took her place at his side. He held out his hand expectantly—obediently, she placed her hand in his.

        Joan winced and cursed beneath her breath as Joshua unwrapped the knot of bandages as carefully as he could. Her free hand was knotted into a fist, her fingernails scraping the meat of her palm as fresh sweat dotted her brow. After a moment her finger was released and she ground her teeth together hard enough that her jaw throbbed all the way up the sides of her face and deep into her temples. Her finger felt as though the fire had been lit anew in the fresh air of the valley. She could barely stand to look at it; it had more than doubled in size, an enormous charred bubble of flesh seeping thin watery fluid. The edges of the wound looked like scorched parchment paper. Joshua gave her a sympathetic look before extending her arm in front of him.

        “Wait,” she choked, her finger inches away from the cool water. She cast her eyes back to where she had passed out; gleaming in the sun was her slim metal case, carelessly tossed to the ground the night before. “I have Med-X. Let me get that really quick, then you can start.”

        Joshua looked over his shoulder at the case before turning back to her. His brows creased together with disapproval.

        “You don’t need that,” he admonished her, still suspending her hand in the air over the water. Joan tried to pull away from him, but he held her fast. “If you can’t handle a small burn like this, how can you expect to deal with anything else the world will throw at you? You’ll be fine.” He attempted to lower her hand into the water but Joan wrenched her arm, managing to just keep it in place. Indignant fury ignited within her and she lowered her chin with determination, glaring hard at him.

        “ _Excuse me_?” Her tone was low and sharp. “You’re trying to tell me what _I_ can’t handle? I’ve been shot in the head, I’ve been to the Divide, _I_ took Hoover _fucking_ Dam; who are you to tell me what I can’t goddamn handle?”

        Joshua’s eyebrows shot up at this outburst before settling into an expression as resolute as her own. Their eyes clashed, blue on black, for several long moments as the pain in her finger acted as a conduit to the red hot outrage that surged within her that he would dare to be so presumptuous about what she was capable of. Neither budged.

        A warm breeze swept through the Eastern Virgin, causing shallow ripples to spread out across the serene waters of the cove. It was strong enough that even the sand on the banks kicked up and danced in the air around the two as they sat locked in a battle of wills. A few granules of sand stuck to her finger.

        Joan howled in agony, the grains of sand like rusty razor blades skewering the pulpy seared meat of the burn. She folded and bent double, her stomach clenching painfully as she struggled to keep herself from bursting apart at the seams.

        Joshua Graham thrust her hand into the water.

        Supporting herself on her free hand, Joan let him take her injured hand in both of his, the water dulling the raw edge off the worst of the stinging and burning. The burst of pain led to a deflated feeling of fatigue and she was too exhausted to try to argue or fight with him further. He set to work not only on her finger but her entire hand, massaging the meat of her palm between his own scarred fingertips. He was delicate around the wound, letting the pads of his fingers skate as gently over the bubble of flesh as he could manage before cleaning between each finger, working deep into the webbing. Joan felt the fatigue melt away into something else; she turned her face away from him, feeling as though a nest of cazadors had come alive inside of her, buzzing and erratic.

        After a few minutes Joshua pulled her hand from the water and inspected his work as droplets rained from her hand onto his lap. He withdrew a small knife and a roll of gauze from one of his vest pockets and lanced the bubble of flesh that threatened to consume her finger, holding her hand over the sand as plasma flooded out while the two of them watched in silence as it slowly deflated. Finally he began to carefully wrap the finger in clean bandages, loosely enveloping it from base to tip. Joan swallowed.

        “We’re going to need to clean this, probably about twice a day. I want to keep an eye on it for the next week or so,” he stated matter-of-factly, finally releasing her hand.

        “I need to get back to Vegas,” she faltered. Joshua looked at her before turning his face away and clearing his throat.

        “I don’t think that would be wise. You’re not going to be able to defend yourself on your journey back to the Mojave. That’s your trigger finger,” he said with a begrudging sense of finality.

        Joan stared down at the thick white bandages—the importance of which finger had been burned had not occurred to her before this moment. Instinctively she moved to fidget with her tie and winced as renewed pain shot through her hand. He was right. Again.

        “Of course,” she said stiffly, trying to retain control of the situation. They sat facing each other as an uncomfortable silence passed between them.

        Behind them, a group of Dead Horses had begun to mill around the fire and picnic tables that dotted the camp, speaking cheerfully in their strange tongue. Joshua perked up. Joan couldn’t understand a word they were saying.

        “You look famished,” he said, hefting himself to his feet. He extended a hand to her and helped her up as well. Joan gladly welcomed the distraction.

        “Yes, absolutely,” she agreed quickly. She matched his brisk pace to the fire as the Dead Horses—and a number of the Sorrows, she now noted—gathered around the tables, taking seats and babbling to each other. Joan could manage well enough speaking one-on-one with the tribals, but the wild flurry of chatter surrounding her was like gnats buzzing in her ears. Joshua responded to them easily, the faint lines around his eyes crinkling as he spoke; Joan feigned a sudden interest in her Pipboy.

        “Tanaashgiizh!” A few Sorrows emerged from the Angel Cave, their arms laden with large wooden trays stacked with food and water. Bowls of what looked to be a thick muddy colored porridge were placed before her and Joshua first, then for the rest of the tribals. Joan watched the Sorrows as they scuttled back into the cave. Lowering his head, Joshua began speaking in English again, leading the tribals around them in prayer; Joan followed suit and bowed her head, closing her eyes in genuflection. As soon as he was done speaking, the Dead Horses dug into their food with zeal.

        “Have you ever had this?” Joshua spoke quietly to Joan. She had opened her eyes again and was watching the entrance to the cave. Sorrows flitted in and out bearing bottles of water and extra helpings. Joan hadn’t touched her food yet. “It’s made from blue corn.”

        “They’re all women,” she said. Joshua’s eyes followed hers; he immediately grasped her insinuation.

        “The Dead Horses and I have been scrubbing the valley clean,” he explained. “Finding the last traces of the White Legs and dealing with them. The women of the Sorrows have taken on the more mundane roles of the camp: cooking, cleaning, et cetera.”

        Joan’s eyes didn’t move from the cave entrance.

        “They seemed perfectly capable to me when I was here a couple months ago,” she said stiffly. Joshua sighed, his voice tinged with irritation.

        “They’re capable at hunting wild animals, not men. This is what’s safest for them.” He turned to look at her and Joan’s eyes darted between his and the cave.

        “I know what you’re thinking,” he continued evenly. “And I can even understand why. But I would hope you knew me better than that, after everything I’ve shared with you.”

        Joan felt the familiar flush creeping up her neck as she finally twisted to meet him. She studied his face and he let her, sitting patiently as his own food went ignored. Though pale, there was no hint of the icy hardness in his eyes that had been there the night before. Just Joshua. She bit the inside of her lip and ignored the burning in her finger as she finally turned to her own bowl of porridge and began to eat. Joshua followed suit, pausing only to part the bandages over his mouth just enough so that food could pass through. Joan snuck a few glances at him—she caught a glimpse of his darkened lips before forcing herself not to be impolite and focus on her own meal.

        The rest of the meal passed quietly. Joan ate her porridge slowly—the men around her wolfed theirs down with just enough restraint to remain courteous. She was dragging a rough spoon across the bottom of her bowl when she glanced up at the cave entrance and saw a familiar face.

        “Joan!” Waking Cloud noticed her at the same time and made her way over, waving her arms. Joshua stepped away from the table, excusing himself to go and oversee the Dead Horses. Joan pushed away the remainder of her food and stood to greet the other woman, thrusting out her hand; Waking Cloud stared quizzically at it for a moment before sweeping Joan into an enormous bear hug, squeezing her tightly. Joan was taken aback before awkwardly patting the taller woman on her bare shoulder, quietly hissing at the pain it elicited in her forefinger.

        “I’m surprised to see you here,” Joan said. “I thought you would have gone through the Grand Staircase with Daniel and the other Sorrows.”

        Waking Cloud pulled away, her smile dimming.

        “I will go nowhere with Daniel. He is a liar,” she spoke bitterly. “Do you know what he did? He knew my husband was dead, and he did and said nothing. I worried for my husband for weeks, and he _knew_. He was a coward.” She crossed her arms, her expression stony as Joan quickly averted her gaze—Waking Cloud seemed to be unaware of her own role in Daniel’s deception.

        “I’m sure he just wanted you to remain focused,” she offered, fiddling with the loose end of the bandage wrapped around her finger.

        “Pah! Of course I would have remained focused! My children were out there waiting for me. I was midwife to the Sorrows, did he think I was not used to seeing the terrible, the sadness? It was my choice to grieve and remain strong and he took that from me.” Resentment and sadness commingled on Waking Cloud’s face and Joan decided not to push her.

        “So, your children?” Joan asked instead.

        “They are here with me now, where they belong,” she replied, brightening considerably. “I am proud of them. They have been very brave, for everything that has happened. We are much better off here with Joshua Graham and the Dead Horses. My sons and my daughter are safe.” She looked mistily out over the waters of the cove and some of the tension that had been winding up within Joan since lunch melted away.

        “That’s good, I’m glad someone’s watching over you,” she said, smiling up at Waking Cloud.

        “I am always being watched over,” Waking Cloud replied with proud affection, “but it is nice to have a—how do you say it—a _tangible_ friend to look out for us. Joshua Graham is a good man.” She paused, eyeing Joan. “And you are a good woman to help him. We could not have remained in Zion if it were not for the two of you. I thank you.”

        Joan flushed, casting her eyes down as a small smile crossed her lips.

        “I only did what was right.”

***

        The afternoon passed idly for Joan. She had offered to help out around the camp, to make herself useful in some way, but Joshua had denied her, pointing out that not only was she a guest, but that she needed to make sure her finger remained clear of any further damage. Joan supposed it was only practical. She had never been any good at the banality of domestic chores anyway—she had no idea how to cook anything that wasn’t charred black and borderline inedible. Meanwhile Joshua busied himself leading the Dead Horses, overseeing them as they ran around the cove exercising. She was settled neatly by the large fire dominating the center of the camp and watched him over the pages of her bible with curiosity.

        He was stern, but she didn’t see anything untoward. He engaged in the exercises himself and made the work look easy: hoisting himself up on a branch until his bandaged chin cleared it, performing pushups, and leading the men in deep lunges, their legs extended with calculation. She wondered how on earth he had remained so flexible after Caesar had him burned; in the short amount of time that had elapsed since Joshua washed her hand, her own finger had curled painfully in on itself like a pillbug. She attempted to stretch it out before cursing loudly enough that some of the Dead Horses glanced her way.

        By the water’s edge, where it had been sadly abandoned the night before, was her case of Med-X. She stared at it across the sand, the hot air wavering around it like a mirage in the desert, as beckoning as an oasis. Joshua Graham passed in front of her vision.

        “I’m glad to see you’re enjoying my gift,” Joshua said, sounding genuinely pleased.

        Joan startled, her attention snapping back from the thin metal case. She bookmarked her spot before gently pressing the worn pages closed.

        “Of course. I like it. It… gives me hope,” she replied, tilting her head back to look up at his face. There was a smile around his eyes.

        “I thought you might see it the way I do,” he said, before his attention was diverted by one of the men calling out to him. Joan buried her nose in her bible again as he left; she hoped the shade from her hat concealed the pink in her cheeks.

***

        Afternoon stretched to nightfall and the camp seemed to settle earlier this evening than it had the night before. The tone was light as Dead Horses and Sorrows mingled around the fire chatting with each other over bottles of water. Joshua had retreated into the Angel Cave some time earlier. Joan had not followed him.

        Waking Cloud emerged from the group and settled next to Joan by the waters of the cove. Joan was feeling very good—as soon as Joshua had entered the cave she’d all but dashed over to her case of Med-X and injected an amount that would have made Arcade’s eyebrows jump to his hairline. She leaned back now, propped up on her good hand, her bare feet lazily waving back and forth in the shallow water.

        “I hope this visit has been better than your last,” Waking Cloud said. “Zion is a place of deep beauty; you should embrace it this time.”

        Joan rolled her shoulders and loosened her tie between the unbuttoned panels of her suit jacket. She wasn’t sure how to respond, and she rather wished Waking Cloud would leave her to her high in peace.

        “Yeah,” she said distractedly. Waking Cloud studied her.

        “Are you alright?”

        Joan stiffened and resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

        “Yes. I’m fine. I’m _embracing beauty_.” She immediately felt a stab of remorse and turned to look at Waking Cloud, who was watching her with concern. She schooled her tone into something friendlier.

        “Seriously. I’m okay. I’m just relaxing. It was… a long journey here. I’m still recovering,” she said. Waking Cloud’s eyes drifted to Joan’s finger—the dingy bandages were washed starkly pale against the sand under the moonlight.

        “Did you hurt yourself on your journey? I’m not just a midwife, Danie— _I_ know much of other medicines as well,” she corrected herself. “I can take a look at that.”

        Joan withdrew her hand protectively into her lap.

        “It’s fine,” she said too quickly. “It’s just a small thing. It’s not a big deal.” She clamped her mouth shut against any further rambling. Waking Cloud looked unconvinced; Joan wished with greater fervency that she would just go back to the other tribals and leave her alone. She was all too happy when heeled footsteps came padding softly up behind them a moment later. She looked over her shoulder—as she had expected, worn snakeskin shoes.

        “We should clean your wound again, Joan,” Joshua said.

        Waking Cloud raised her brows before hopping lightly up to her feet to give him space. She looked knowingly at Joan.

        “It is good you’ve got someone to look over you,” she echoed with a small smile before taking her leave, heading back to the group around the fire. The wave of relief that had washed over Joan quickly evaporated as Joshua knelt to take Waking-Cloud’s place. She inhaled steadily, thanking God that she had enough Med-X in her system to put a grown man to sleep.

        “Give me your hand,” Joshua demanded, drawing a cloth out of his pocket and spreading it neatly on the sand by the water. On the cloth he laid out a roll of gauze and his pocketknife. _I don’t want to_ , she thought as she stared down at it on her lap. In her high it reminded her of a small sad animal, one that should be protected. Her lower lip jutted out.

        “I’m not going to ask you again,” he said sharply. She jerked her head up to look at him. Disapproval was etched deeply into the grooves around his eyes, his dark brows forming a severe line. “You probably can’t even do it yourself with all the chems in your system.”

        A deep blush bloomed in Joan’s neck and cheeks, rising all the way to the tips of her ears, and she turned her face away from him.

        “How did you—”

        “I know everything that goes on in this valley.”

        “You didn’t see me coming last night,” she snapped back. For a terrible moment Joshua looked thunderous and she flinched away from him.

        “You’ve already tested my patience once this evening.” His tone was darkly polite. “Do not abuse my generosity. You are a guest here. I have very few rules for guests in Zion, but this is one of them. Do not let me catch you injecting that poison again.”

        Resentment burst to life within Joan that he would speak to her like a child, like an inferior.

        “Do you burn your other guests?”

        Immediately she scrambled away from him, seeing real anger in his eyes for the first time. She winced as she sprang off her fingertips to stand, swaying slightly with the morphine pulsing through her veins. Joshua Graham stared up at her for a moment before drawing himself up slowly to his feet, and she was acutely aware of the difference in height between them. He seemed to swell even larger as he looked down on her, his eyes burning. Water lapped at her feet as he stood as impenetrable as a wall in front of her, the rest of the camp behind him.

        “That was uncalled for,” she said quickly. She held out her hand and Joshua looked down at it. His expression dulled and he seemed to catch himself.

        “Let’s get to work.”

        The two sat again, the situation defused. He was not as gentle as he had been in the morning; he unwound her bandages with stark efficiency, ignoring her gritted teeth and low cursing as he dunked her hand in the water without ceremony, washing her fingers as if he were scraping a pan clean. Within moments he had withdrawn it, briskly patting her hand dry before lancing the mangled bubble of flesh that consumed her forefinger. As before, they watched it drain in silence. Then he set about wrapping it, working carefully now, making sure not to bind it too tightly. As soon as he was finished he stood.

        “It’s late and I’m tired. Good night.” He didn’t wait for a response before striding away from her, cutting through the lingering Dead Horses to his lean-to. She watched as he knelt and laid down in it, curling with his back to the campfire; the Dead Horses grew silent and followed his lead, heading to their own furs. Joan numbly sat by the water as the last traces of the high wore off of her. The pain relief remained—fortunately— and her finger merely whispered pain rather than screamed it.

        After a while she finally stood up and fetched her sleeping bag from the pack she’d left near the edge of the camp the previous evening. She hesitated, staring at the spot she had made her own during her first visit: close to the fire in that frigid desert night—unintentionally mere feet away from Joshua’s lean-to.

        Her jaw set with conviction. She made her way over to her regular spot and spread out her bag, determined to do what she had always done, that nothing had changed.

        Quickly she undressed down to the grey shorts and shirt she wore as undergarments, glad to be out of her suit for the first time in a few days and tucked herself into her bag, burrowing deep into the warmth in the cool night air.


	3. I Walk the Line

Chapter 3: I Walk the Line

_You’ve got a way to keep me on your side, you give me cause for love that I can’t hide, for you I’d even try to turn the tide_

        The next two days were uneventful. Joshua gave Joan a wide berth, focusing instead on his work with the Dead Horses and male Sorrows, leading them in various exercises throughout the morning and evening, and taking shelter in the Angel Cave during the hottest part of the day when the sun was at its peak in the sky. Joan had no idea what he was up to while he was in there. The female Sorrows continued their domestic duties around the camp, feeding and looking after the men. Rarely, Joan would spy the younger members of the tribes passing in and out of the Eastern Virgin with their parents; Waking Cloud had shown off her three children to Joan, beaming with maternal pride. Joan was inexperienced with children during the best of times and awkwardly waved at them as they babbled at her in their simplistic language. Waking Cloud had offered to let Joan hold her youngest, her daughter, which she had promptly refused, holding up her bandaged hand as an excuse.

        Throughout it all, Joan kept to herself, burying her nose in her bible and trying to ignore the ever present throbbing and burning in her forefinger, which unfortunately did not seem to be decreasing, even with her surreptitious use of Med-X. Despite virtually ignoring her the rest of the time, Joshua still meticulously cleaned her wounded finger for her twice a day as he had promised. He was gentle once again, even if he worked in total silence.

        On the third day Joan grew restless, prowling around the increasingly claustrophobic cove. She watched Sorrows traveling in and out of the camp with envy as she wore a line down the water’s edge, back and forth, back and forth. This did not go unnoticed by Joshua Graham.

        “Would you like to come with me?”

        She stopped and looked up at him. It was just past midday, and Joshua was standing before her with a pack slung over his shoulder.

        “Yes,” she said automatically. She didn’t even care where he was going. The cazadors buzzed inside her once again.

        “I’m heading to the Sorrow’s camp. Daniel left a few things,” he explained. “I wouldn’t mind the company, if you were up for it.”

        The rage she saw in him the other day was completely gone, as though it had never been there at all. She wondered if he had seemed exaggerated in her high, better resembling the wrathful spirit on the canyon walls than the placid man who stood in front of her now.

        “I don’t think I’ve ever sat still for so long in my life,” she said. “I’d love that.”

        The two set out immediately, winding their way down the Eastern Virgin. Joan hesitated only a moment before hiking up her skirt to pass through the deepest parts of the creek, as she had always done. Joshua politely sped up to walk in front of her, and she was glad he couldn’t see her face.

        “I always thought that suit was impractical,” Joshua said over his shoulder as they exited the creek, stepping up onto the small dock that led to the road ahead. He paused to wring out the legs of his jeans before shaking the water off his shoes like a dog would shake out its fur. Joan narrowed her eyes at him.

        “Not like that,” he said lightly. “It must be nice to just pull your clothes out of the way.” He mimicked her holding her skirt up. Joan saw what he meant and chuckled, letting her skirt fall back to her knees as she stepped up onto the dock after him.

        “A lot of people have said that I dress unusually,” she said with a small measure of pride before a flash of curiosity sparked within her. She hesitated before speaking again.

        “Can I ask you something personal?”

        He looked down at her once again, his friendly eyes turning wary.

        “What would you like to know?”

        “I’ve never seen anyone wearing anything like what you wear either. Where did you get it?” she asked. Joshua relaxed before looking down at his own attire.

        “As I told you, I’m originally from Ogden. Shortly after I began traveling as a missionary I found this vest in the ruins of Salt Lake City. I took it as a sign from God that I was on the right path—it’s been invaluable to me,” he answered lightly, the warmth returning to his face. Joan looked over his shoulder; the angry idol glared down on them, eyes blazing red and bloody.

        “Have you always worn it?”

        The layers of her question weren’t missed by him; he twisted to follow her gaze up the canyon walls.

        “Yes.”

        Joan didn’t press him further as they walked up the road leading to the center of the park.

        The afternoon passed pleasantly and Joan was reminded of her time traveling with Follows-Chalk as Joshua commented on their surroundings. She was surprised at his wealth of knowledge of the prewar world as he explained the various buildings and sights to her, even commenting on the burned out and rusted vehicles that dotted the camp grounds and dusty roads.

        “I envy those people,” she said as they passed yet another husk of a car. “Driving looks fantastic. It must have been really freeing to just… go. No preparation. Just pick up your keys and take off, whenever you want, to wherever you want. You’d only ever have to stop for fuel.”

        “I see what you mean. Even now I can appreciate the remains of a fine piece of machinery,” he agreed, patting a truck with his scarred hand as though it were a brahmin. Her mind wandered to what it would have been like if they had lived in that era, if they ever even would have met, and what the world would have shaped them into during that peaceful time. She blushed as an image from a prewar magazine slid uninvited into her mind with their faces superimposed over the smiling caricatures: Joshua Graham sitting in an impeccable suit and tie at a sparkling clean kitchen table that was drenched with morning sunlight, a newspaper hovering over his undamaged face, one slim dress shoe perched on his knee as he sipped—pinkie out—from a ceramic mug. Herself with her hair swept up into victory rolls, wearing a floral housedress and pearls, heels clacking across a checkered kitchen floor as she served him toast and eggs, smiling at him with ruby red lips. She grimaced and shoved the repugnant scene from her mind.

        “Ever thought of trying to fix one up?” she asked. Joshua laughed.

        “I know my way around a firearm. Prewar vehicles are a little beyond me, although I’m flattered you think I could,” he said as they continued their journey across the valley.

        Before long they reached the Sorrows camp. Joan didn’t recall it ever bustling with activity, but it looked haunted and abandoned now: furs spilled out of the empty lean-tos, and a few cans and bottles were scattered over the ground near some deserted earthen cookware.

        “I thought some of the Sorrows were still here,” she commented as they wound their way through the creek that pierced the heart of the camp.

        “They are, but they mostly live and work in the Dead Horse’s camp now—though I believe Waking Cloud returns here each evening with her children, among a few others,” he replied. Joan idled as Joshua made his way around the camp, picking up a few items that Daniel had left in his hasty exit: some books, medicines, a few articles of clothing. Joshua sighed.

        “I tried to convince him to stay,” he said. Joan watched his broad shoulders drop as he packed away the remnants into the pack he’d brought along as he continued, resigned and melancholy.

        “He was determined. Most of the Sorrows left with him, and I pray for their safety in the wilderness. At least I can return his belongings to him if he ever comes back.”

        “I’m sorry,” she said, unsure of what else to say.

        “It was his choice. He’s capable, so I at least know the Sorrows are in good hands.” Joshua looked up at the darkening sky as he began to wrap up. “We should head back to the camp.”

        Joan agreed and they turned around to retrace their steps through the valley.

        They had been traveling for some time when something on the horizon caught Joan’s attention. Her previous trip to Zion had been fairly rushed and there were large swaths of the valley she had never seen before. In the distance was an enormous red arch linking two towering columns of rock. Curiosity sparked within her and she paused to reach up and tap Joshua’s shoulder before extending her bandaged finger in the direction of the natural monument.

        “Let’s go look at that,” she said. He shifted his eyes to the arch before looking back at her, and then at the rock formation again.

        “The Red Gate?” he asked.

        “Is that what it’s called? I want to go see it up close. There’s nothing like that in the Mojave,” she said, already striding past him. He caught up to her in a few easy steps, seemingly amused by her curiosity.

        “We passed through it the night we dealt with the White Legs. You don’t remember it?”

        “It was late and I was a little preoccupied,” she shot back acerbically. The sky above them continued to darken as they neared the arch and fine droplets of rain dotted the earth around them, freckling the bold red rocks. There was nothing around the arch except a few small scorpions that skittered away as soon as they stepped close. Ahead of them was a ridge that penetrated the arch, giving way to a cliff that overlooked the sweeping Virgin River. The rainfall brought out the lush scents of sage and poppies in the valley, abundant and alive.

        Joan looked around, feeling queerly as though she were searching for something, although she couldn’t imagine what it might be, while Joshua hung back and watched her. After a few minutes Joan ascended the ridge that pierced the arch and looked back at him; she was on the verge of telling him they should move on when she spotted what looked like a pale stick protruding from between a cluster of rocks. She backtracked to inspect it.

        Wedged between the darkened wet rocks was a skeleton, one that looked much older than the others she had seen in the valley. Beside it lay a rusted rifle, a corked bottle of scotch, and a military surplus bag.

        “Oh my God.”

        Joshua watched with quiet interest as she tore open the bag, digging within it with such fervor that some of the contents spilled out onto the wet earth. Joan lit up like a candle a moment later as she pulled out what looked to be an old diary, its cover faded and battered with age. She scoured the pages for a few minutes.

        “It’s him,” she said, her fingers pressed loosely over her lips as she read.

        “Who is it?”

        Joan ignored him as she quickly thumbed the final pages of the journal. She couldn’t believe what she was reading.

        “Randall Clark,” she spoke reverently, more to herself than to Joshua. He arched an eyebrow at her. Joan had discovered several of the poignant journal entries during her previous trip to Zion, but she had never learned what had become of the author himself, his ultimate fate.

        Joan breathed in deeply, feeling something unusual overcoming her. The journal was limp in her hands as she stepped back from the ledge.

        “It’s him. The Father in the Cave,” she said, staring at the skeleton. Joshua pricked with recognition.

        “That myth the Sorrows believe in?” he asked. Joan shook her head.

        “He’s not a myth. I’ve been in those caves. He lived here in Zion, just after the war. He…” she trailed off, curiously choked up all of a sudden. “He looked after them. I have all his journals scanned into my Pipboy. He cared about them.”

        She drifted away from the remains and back to the ledge that overlooked the river cutting through Zion. The sun started to set, turning the rainfall into diamond-like slivers in the air around her.

        In her mind’s eye she saw not Zion, but New Vegas, her glittering oasis in the Mojave. She saw within it the people who lived there, who shared her short life and experiences, the trials and tribulations she had endured, and that they had overcome together. She thought of Helios One: Arcade standing beside her as she gritted her teeth and chose where to direct the power of the sun, finally deciding that she didn’t want to be like House—she didn’t want to hoard her goods and wealth, she wanted equality in the desert, and that the outer edges of the Mojave deserved the stability and security of electricity just as much as the residents of Vegas did. She had made a similar decision at Hoover Dam when Yes Man had presented the option of destroying the Dam to her. It would have been practical to destroy it, to ensure no one, not even the NCR, would ever have any reason to come near her precious sanctuary again, but still she couldn’t. Vegas deserved better.

        She loved Vegas, the Mojave, and everyone in it.

        Like floodwaters threatening to pull her under, she felt an alien swell of emotion rising within her. Everything before had seemed like a game to her, she reflected. It had been fun to help the NCR at Camp Forlorn Hope and McCarran. Running a few errands for House had also been enjoyable, at least until she determined that he was too greedy and unfit to lead Vegas. In a strange way, there had also been a thrill during the one night she had spent at Caesar’s camp, across the Colorado. Frightening and disturbing for sure, but an undeniable rush of excitement. But now that she was distant enough to see it all, the gravity of everything weighed on her. Looking back, it was like watching a film on holotape: she could see all the events that led up to this moment and watch the puzzle pieces slide together, the events of her life forming her like a sculptor would meld clay in his hands. She didn’t remember anything of her former life, before Benny had shot her in the head, and at this point she didn’t care to. She was who she was, what the Mojave had formed her into, and she couldn’t fathom being anything else.

        She swept off her desperado hat and tilted her head back, letting the rain wash over her as she allowed everything to crash around inside her, the way water crashed through Hoover Dam. She owed everything to the people in the Mojave, for better or worse.

_The fire that had kept me alive was love. Their love. God's love. I will never be able to repay the debt I owe to them, but I must try._

        She opened her eyes.

        She wanted to be like Randall Clark. For Vegas to always have her strength and support, to be able to protect them and watch over them, to shape the Mojave as it had shaped her. It was a burden she was happy—honored, even—to carry for them. Abruptly she felt desperately homesick and she swallowed against the painful lump that had grown in her throat. She missed them all so much, and for the first time understood the way that Waking Cloud looked at her children: with pride, joy, and unconditional love. She flooded with warmth all the way down to her fingertips and she inhaled deeply, taking in the scents around her: wet sage, fresh water, the electric ozone of the rain. And something else.

        Her eyes lowered for a moment and she caught of a glimpse of white at the periphery of her vision. Joshua Graham was standing next to her, so close that their shoulders might have touched if she weren’t so much shorter than him. The cazadors gently stirred to life inside of her again. She looked over at him as he gazed out over the river, looking as lost in his own mind as she was in her own. She looked back over the water.

        If she allowed herself to be honest, she wanted to be like Joshua too, though she would never admit that to anyone, least of all him. Love had saved him, as he had told her, and she hadn’t really understood what he’d meant then. She understood it now though. She snuck another glance at him, her stomach weightless, as though she had unexpectedly fallen from a ledge. Everything in her mind told her that she shouldn’t feel this way; she could already see the looks of horror on Arcade’s and Cass’s faces if she told them about him, could already hear their well intended objections.

        Her breath caught in her throat as she thought of Boone. He would only ever see the Malpais Legate—not the man who stood beside her now. They could never see the real Joshua Graham, not the way she did.

        Joshua turned his head and caught her eyes and she saw a mutual understanding there. He knew what it was like to lead people, and the terrible burden it brought. It was a harsh world that they lived in, one that did not allow for mercy nearly as often as she would prefer, and the difficult choices that that often led to. She cared deeply about Arcade, Cass, and Boone; but they didn’t understand what it was like. To be like the Father in the Cave.

        In her reverie the journal slipped from her fingers, and Joshua moved as quick as a snake, bending to catch it before it struck the wet ground. He straightened and handed it back to her.

        “You won’t tell them, will you?” Joan asked abruptly, turning to face him as she accepted the journal. “He wouldn’t have wanted that. Randall Clark wanted the Sorrows to move on, to stand strong on their own. He didn’t want them to ever see him this way.”

        They both looked back at the lonely skeleton, still wedged in its grave between the rocks. Joshua nodded.

        “I understand. Don’t worry, this can stay between the two of us,” he said. Joan felt that warm glow within her again; the cazadors darted around faster.

        “Thank you,” she paused. “And… thank you, for staying with me. It’s nice to have someone who understands.”

        Joshua’s eyebrows rose nearly imperceptibly.

        “Of course,” he said, before pulling away from her. “We should head out before the storm comes.”


	4. Fire

Chapter 4: Fire

_A thousand times I’ve fallen_

        Night had nearly fallen by the time they returned to the Dead Horses camp, having slogged their way through the Eastern Virgin. The rain was coming down steadily and the Dead Horses were bunked up in their lean-tos to stay dry.

        Joan had been without Med-X since the day before and she was sweating with the pain searing her finger, clutching her hand against her chest and trying to keep her breathing steady. They had barely exited the water when she nearly fell into Joshua as he paused to wring out his pants legs, surprising him.

        “What’s wrong?” he asked sharply. She was staring down at her finger; her arm trembled and she bit her lip. He immediately ushered her to the Angel Cave.

        “Come inside. We need to look at that,” he said as he marched her through the entrance of the cave. She complied without resistance. Despite the storm, the cave was completely empty; Joan thought to ask him why they didn’t sleep inside but he was already whisking her up to the chamber he had made his own, before sitting her down at his work table once again. Joan didn’t look at the oil lamp.

        Joshua seated himself opposite her and seized her hand without asking.

        “I’m sorry, but this is going to hurt,” he said, unwrapping the bandages without pausing. And hurt it did—Joan gripped the table with her free hand until her knuckles were as pale as Randall Clark’s bones, grinding her teeth together with enough force to make her vision pulse.

        The burn looked bad. There was no plasma now, the bubble of flesh hanging deflated and dead. The skin around it looked like the pages of a burned book: curling, gnarled and blackened. She couldn’t feel the center of the burn anymore; all the pain radiated from the outside of the bullseye. Joshua twisted and flipped her hand in his to inspect it from every angle, his brows creeping closer and closer together with each passing second.

        “What is it?” she bit out raggedly. Joshua placed her hand on the table.

        “It’s not good,” he confessed. “The flesh is dead. It needs to be cut away.”

        Joan’s eyes flew open wide and she snatched her hand back to her chest.

        “What does that mean?”

        “It means what it sounds like. I’m going to need to cut away the dead flesh so that the living flesh can heal, so that it doesn’t become infected,” Joshua explained as he stood up and rummaged in one of the crates in the room. He fished out a small metal pot and lid. Joan sighed with relief and chuckled nervously.

        “That’s it? Dead skin doesn’t feel anything. That’s not so bad,” she said. Joshua gave her a look of pity.

        “I think you misunderstand what this is going to entail for you,” he said. “The only way to know if I’ve cut away enough of the dead flesh is to take a tithing of living flesh with it. It’s the only way.”

        Joan’s fingertips turned to chips of ice, ice that cracked and spread up her arms and into her torso. Her heartbeat sped up and she found it difficult to swallow.

        “… Are you sure?”

        “I’m sure. I’m going to go boil some water,” he said, walking briskly down out of the chamber and into the entrance of the cave below them.

        Joan sat and tried to stop her heart from jumping out of her chest. In Joshua’s absence, she felt a strange false and shaky calm cast a shadow over her—as though he had not merely stepped from the cave but into another dimension altogether, one where her finger was not burned, where she wasn’t in excruciating pain, where he hadn’t just told her that he’d have to cut off parts of her finger. Her eyes leapt to the mouth of the chamber and she slipped her hand inside her suit jacket for her slim metal case, popping it open. She still had a couple syringes of Med-X prepared for fast and easy use, and was just drawing one out when Joshua re-entered the chamber.

        “Fuck.”

        She shoved her hand back inside her jacket but it was too late—Joshua’s brows had already lowered and he was charging at her. In an instant he thrust his hand inside her suit jacket, yanking the metal case out and snatching it from her. She scrambled to close her jacket again, feeling violated.

        “That’s mine,” she said tensely, staring up at him through her sunglasses. Joshua strode to the other side of the cave and slid the case on top of one of the tall cabinets that circled the chamber.

        “It is, and fortunately for you, God commands that I don’t _take_ it from you,” he said, turning to face her. He seemed to swell again. “You can have it back when you leave Zion.”

        “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Joan narrowed her eyes, the pain in her finger temporarily forgotten. “You’re about to cut off part of my goddamn finger! No doctor in Vegas would have an issue with this, it’s not like I’m taking it for fun. I’m in fucking pain.”

        Joshua stared hard at her for a moment before calming himself.

        “I know you’re in pain. I know you think you need the chems, but you _don’t_ , I assure you,” he said before spreading out his hands. “God doesn’t give anything to us that we cannot withstand. I’ve survived this. I know you can too.”

        Joan’s eyebrows creased together with uncertainty as flattery and indignity warred within her. Joshua swept past her, drawing his pocketknife out of his vest; Joan stared at it, transfixed and terrified all over again.

        “I’m going to go sterilize this. I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said, then paused, glancing at the cabinet the case was perched on top of, before glaring at Joan with enough intensity that she shied away from him, her cheeks burning. He didn’t say anything further and left the cavern again.

        Joan felt the strange not-calm again. In this happy bubble she could pretend he was never going to come back. If she tapped her heels together she would be in Vegas, having a drink with Cass on the balcony that overlooked the Strip.

        The burning in her finger quickly jerked her back to reality.

        It’s not so bad, she rationalized. She had been shot in the head. This would hurt, but it couldn’t last more than a few minutes. And once Joshua was asleep, she would absolutely come back and retrieve her Med-X; he could take his stupid Canaanite rules and shove them straight up his own scarred ass. She wished she could fast forward time, like she had read in a prewar novel, and that this would all be over with. That it could be tomorrow and things would be nice again, sitting next to Joshua at the picnic table with the other Dead Horses, breaking bread and being merry. Hell, maybe Follows-Chalk would show up unexpectedly and everyone would be happy and nothing bad would ever happen again. Might as well shoot for the moon.

        “I want you to lie down,” Joshua interrupted her thoughts, bringing her crashing back down to the Angel Cave. He was bent over, spreading a worn Yao Guai fur on the floor. Joan flushed a deep red.

        “Why?” she asked quickly. Her voice was shrill and she hated it.

        “I need you to remain as still as possible. That will be easier if you’re lying down and not sitting, trust me,” he said. “I don’t want to cut anything that isn’t strictly necessary.”

        “You’re already going to cut away unnecessary skin,” Joan spat at him. Joshua inhaled deeply.

        “We have to do this,” he said, his tone stern. “I’m not doing it to hurt you. You don’t want that to become infected. We have some limited means to deal with that if it did happen, but I’ll be honest—it’s nothing like the care you would receive in the Mojave. You can’t afford to lose that finger if it came to it.”

        Joan looked down at her forefinger in horror.

        “What about Waking Cloud?” she asked, her voice small. Joshua looked apologetic.

        “Not only is she on the other side of Zion right at this moment, but I wouldn’t have her do this anyway. I’ve done this before and she hasn’t. Besides,” he paused, his voice growing somber, “Her skills are in bringing life to the world. I’m… better suited to this task.”

        Joan looked down, ashamed of her outburst.

        “You’re right,” she apologized. She still didn’t move.

        “Lie down,” he insisted. She fidgeted with her tie and Joshua let out of groan of exasperation.

        “I’m not going to fight you; I want to get this over with.” He marched up to her and seized her upper arm, pulling her off her cinderblock seat as she yelped. She yanked her arm away from him and hopped down from the ledge, making her way to the furs spread out on the floor.

        “Fine, fine,” she said bitterly as she knelt down. She procrastinated, patting the furs out before lying down neatly on top of them, smoothing out her suit jacket and skirt and straightening her tie, as though she were putting herself in her own coffin. The jagged cave floor poked through the furs and she could feel the harsh points jabbing against her hips and shoulder blades. She tried to calm the storm within her; she tried to look anywhere other than at Joshua Graham towering above her, feeling self conscious.

        Her mind was trying to draw an allusion to an entirely different sort of situation and she pushed the thought away as her neck and ears flushed hot and pink.

        Joshua sat down beside her, hip to hip with his back facing her, before threading her arm between his torso and bicep, her arm circling him in a parody of an embrace. He had trapped her hand in front of him where she couldn’t see it. Then, with a sharp _flik_ , she heard him open his knife. For a moment she felt as though she would hyperventilate; he paused and looked over his shoulder at her, meeting her eyes.

        “We can do this,” he said. “I’ve been forged by the fire, and I know that you’re strong enough to endure it too.”

        A touch of warmth spread through her at his words, and she felt like she might be okay after all. Steeling herself, she nodded at him. He turned away from her and she could feel his warm hand wrap around hers, giving her a reassuring squeeze before his grip hardened, holding her finger in place. He cut into her.

        Joan winced, though she had to admit the pain wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be. She wondered if she was more afraid of the idea of pain than the reality of it, given that all the major pain she’d ever endured—that she could recall—had come at her swiftly and without warning. She couldn’t even feel it really. He was right; the skin at the center of the burn was dead and gone. He sliced into her again and all she felt was pressure.

        “I need you to let me know when I’ve hit anything sensitive,” he said over his shoulder. Joan nodded again even though he couldn’t see her.

        Then he sliced again and this time she could feel it. She cried out and jerked in pain, her back arching off the rocky floor. He clamped down on her arm with his own, holding her tight. It hurt like hell, and she clenched the muscles in her calves as she tried to hold still. How can a single finger hurt _so fucking much_ , she thought wildly.

        Then the knife slipped into her again, and it wasn’t as bad this time: pressure and just a touch of the fiery pain. A small chunk of her finger slid away and bounced off the rest of her curled digits; she squeezed her eyes shut and grimaced.

        Another cut and this one was worse than any that had come before it; she jerked around his arm, thrashing her legs and moaning with pain. Joshua was breathing faster as well as he fought to hold her arm still, bearing down on it with enough force to bruise. He leaned backward, pressing his back into her hip to try to force her to remain steady. A horrible keening noise came from Joan’s throat, but she was in too much pain to care; her heartbeat raged in her ears like stampeding brahmin as her free hand scraped at the cave floor. Joshua’s fingers were clenched around her own, digging in painfully.

        “I’m almost finished.” Joshua’s voice sounded thick and distant to her. She was gasping, her chest heaving to take in air, desperate for anything to relieve her of the fire searing through her finger, up her arm, and into her heart. She panted as he continued to cut into her, taking more of the dead flesh this time, a blessed reprieve. Her lips were cracked and dry.

        One more cut, and this time her agony was uncontrollable: Joan screamed as she thrashed wildly around him, her legs flailing and kicking as she pounded his shoulder ineffectually with her free hand. She was hyperventilating now, choking on the dense air in the cave as she wailed, the cords of her neck popping out in sharp relief. Sweat poured down her brow and neck, pooling in the small of her back.

        “ _Stay still_!” he commanded, his voice rough and guttural as he bore all the way down on her, pressing his back into her chest and trapping her between his body and the floor of the cave.

        From his new position she could see her hand over his shoulder, thrust into the air for leverage. She could feel the muscles in Joshua’s back tense, and she stared in horror as he made one final cut: she saw blood surge from around the blade as it penetrated the wound, spattering onto his vest, and she couldn’t stop herself from sobbing in terror.


	5. 'Til You're Numb

Chapter 5: ‘Til You’re Numb

_And if you'd like a girl-like saint, I'll be your little nun—one way or any other dear, I'll harass you till you're numb_

        Joshua Graham’s shoulder blades drove against Joan’s chest and she wheezed, her face wet, heavy sobs bubbling out of her throat, her finger on fire. He sagged against her, breathing hard for a moment before abruptly pulling away and sitting up. Her chest expanded in his absence as she choked in another shaky breath, her lips aching and dry.

        She heard a dull metal clinking and opened her eyes, looking down across the flat expanse of her belly at him. He had pulled away from her and was looking down—she lowered her gaze to follow his and saw that his blackened fingertips were unlatching his belt buckle under the narrow band of white fabric between his SLCPD vest and jeans, fumbling at it before it finally fell open, swinging forward like the doors of a church. Her eyes widened and her vision came into sharper focus. The sound of his fly came next with a smooth zip, and she froze as he hastily shoved down the front of his jeans. She tore her eyes away, her face turning white.

        The furs rustled against the floor as he quickly rearranged himself so that he was facing her, and she yelped in pain as he reached forward and grabbed her by the hips, dragging her to him, one pale leg on either side of his waist, her ass lying on the tops of his thighs. Without hesitation he shoved her skirt up, lifting her hips to push the fabric under her until it gathered around her waist in wrinkled folds.

        “ _What are you doing_?” Joan whispered, jerking her eyes back to his. Her bloodied finger screamed pain and her chest heaved under her suit, her breath coming in tremulous rasps.

        “It’s no mystery how much you’ve wanted this,” Joshua said flatly before clenching his hands in two bunches in her grey undershorts, one fist under each hipbone. His shoulders tensed and Joan winced as he ripped her underwear in half, the thin fabric biting into her before being abruptly released. He carelessly tossed the shredded fabric away and she instinctively tried to close her legs to shield herself; a deep crimson flush formed in her neck and cheeks as all she managed to do was squeeze around his waist, drawing him closer to her. She started breathing in heavy gasps again, looking away from him as a sharp stab of shame pierced her—he had known about her feelings for him. She tried to press her knees together again and this time Joshua seized the meat of her thighs, wrenching them apart with ease.

        He let his rough hands slide down the outsides of her thighs and her breathing hitched as they cupped around her ass as he dragged her closer still, her bare flesh resting against his pelvis. He released her and reached down between their bodies to free his cock from where it was trapped between them and she jumped as it lay across her lightly tufted mound, unexpectedly heavy against her. She felt for a terrifying moment like she might hyperventilate again and he paused.

        For a beat, a cacophony of emotions crashed through her, tidalwave-like in frenetic energy: humiliation, joy, fear, shame, lust. The moment dangled as if suspended on a string, a frail line of spider’s web; Joan thought Joshua might snap back to his senses, that his eyes would lose their terrifyingly bright and sharp edge, and that he would pull away and excuse himself. That he would tuck himself back into his jeans and stand up, that they might act as though this had never happened, just as they had acted like nothing happened after the night he burned her.

        Instead Joshua slid his hands back up her body, his fingers coming to rest on the buttons of her suit jacket as he quickly unbuttoned them, spreading the panels of fabric apart. She stared down at his hands as they splayed across her stomach next, his fingers hot even through the stiff cotton of her button-up as he gently brushed her tie out of the way before he tugged at her white shirt, pulling it out of the waistband of her skirt and undoing the bottom few buttons.

        He paused before lifting his hands to the knot of her tie where he locked and hesitated; somewhere in the back of her mind she wondered if he even knew how to tie a necktie. He fumbled at the knot for a moment and confirmed her theory before finally settling for yanking her tie down as far as it would give. It strained against the back of her neck uncomfortably before he gave up and threw it over her shoulder. He continued unbuttoning her shirt all the way up to her neck.

        Finally her shirt was fanned around her on the furs. He paused again, and she thought she saw something like approval in his eyes as he gazed down at the grey undershirt she wore beneath her suit. He slipped his fingertips under the hem and her belly quivered as the scratchy fabric of his bandages skated over her stomach, her ribs, her flat breasts, as his hands pushed the thin grey fabric up over her chest where it gathered under her collarbone.

        She twisted her face away, still bright red. She couldn’t say that she was ever insecure about the nature of her body, but she felt as though she was beneath a microscope now as Joshua stared openly at her small and heaving torso, the pain in her finger temporarily overwhelmed with the racket inside her skull.

        Having closed her eyes again, she jumped under his touch as he gently and silently took one of her nipples between his calloused fingers. He studied it for a moment, worrying it between his fingertips before quickly pressing them together in a hard pinch, and she gasped as fire burst to life in her stomach. She cracked her eyes open at him. His pupils were darker, clouded with something she couldn’t recognize. She watched as he reached up with the hand that wasn’t fondling her and parted the bandages at his mouth before pressing his darkened lips together; she could see his jaw flinch with pain under his dressings for a moment before he bent forward, and she twisted her head away from him, fear stabbing through the fire in her. For a moment she thought he might kiss her—she was relieved when he lowered his face to her neck instead, letting his hand wander back to her body to brush over the small bumps of her ribs.

        She gasped and shivered as his lips met her throat. He licked the thin and salty flesh there before sucking at her, drawing a portion of the skin between his teeth. Her back arched underneath him, pressing them closer together, and it was as though she realized she had arms and hands of her own once again—she pressed her palms weakly against his chest, crying out with pain as the raw wound of her forefinger brushed the coarse fabric, smearing it with blood. He jerked against her and she could feel his erection digging uncomfortably into the dip in her navel. His lips were still working against her neck as he ran one of his hands down the length of her body and grasped himself, stroking a few times before pressing his head between her legs, running it slickly up and down against her. Her pulse sped up again and she could feel his lips twitch against the vein in her neck before he pulled back and continued working the head of his cock against her, looking down at her flushed body, her thin chest rising and falling sharply with anticipation. Ice shot into the center of her stomach as she looked down her torso, seeing him for the first time.

        He firmly grasped himself, and was just at the threshold of pushing into her when he stopped, flicking his cold blue eyes back up at her.

        “Have you ever been with a man before?”

        He asked this quietly, calmly, as though he were asking her nothing more intimate or interesting than if she’d ever attended a musical performance, or whether or not she had tried an exotic new food. She jerked her head away, flushing almost purple as a fresh wave of shame prevented her from meeting his eyes.

        “I suppose that’s to be expected, especially of a gentile,” he said evenly.

        She pinched her lips together, unexpectedly hurt by his words and the not-quite-concealed tone of disappointment within them. Irrationally, she wanted to apologize but restrained herself, her ego unyielding even now.

        She didn’t have long to contemplate her injured feelings; he shoved himself into her in one fluid motion, burying himself to the hilt, and she shrieked with pain as he struck something deep within her, something that caused her stomach to jump and lurch. She twisted her head, certain for a horrifying moment that she would vomit before the feeling quickly passed. She inhaled a jerky breath as her hands slammed to the cave floor, clenched in fists, the agony in her finger surpassed for the moment. She groaned with pain as he drew back, pulling almost completely out of her before pushing in again, less severely this time. He soon settled into a smooth, almost machine-like motion of thrusting in and out of her with a steady pace.

        She was mortified by the noises erupting from her with each thrust: thin reedy squeaks and gasps as fire seared in her lower back, lapping against the well of pleasure in her groin as he pounded into her. She jerked her arms up and crossed them over her face with humiliation, her mouth wrenched into a rectangle with each cry. After a moment she felt his hands grasp her forearms, prying them apart.

        “I want to look at you,” he said, his voice deeper and hoarser than usual. He finally succeeded in jerking her arms apart and her back arched as he slammed them against the cave floor, bearing down on her biceps and pinning them with his bandaged hands as he continued to fuck her. She closed her eyes instead, unable to look up at him as he hovered over her, trying and failing to contain the noises she made with each push of his hips.

        Around the pain in her finger, her arms, her lower back; she could feel the familiar swell of pleasure building inside her navel, and she squeezed her eyes shut harder. Joshua rumbled a groan as she clenched down on him and she moaned in response, flooding with wetness. Her hips twitched and she could feel herself drawing closer; her belly tightened and she squeezed her thighs around Joshua’s hips expectantly.

        It hit her all at once in a tremendous wave—she came around him in several hard snaps of pleasure, her back arching off the furs, her arms straining under his palms as she released a pitched moan that bounced off the stone walls of the cave, reverberating loudly and echoing around them. The orgasm sprawled out, extending its tendrils past the tensed and hardened muscles in her thighs and stomach with a ripple, reaching all the way to her fingertips and toes and filling her head with static as she collapsed against the cave floor, panting and gasping.

        Throughout everything Joshua’s pace hadn’t fluctuated or changed at all, and in a moment she had tensed again—this time not in pleasure but in discomfort from overstimulation. The muscles in her legs clenched against his hips and she squirmed beneath him, trying to tug her arms out from beneath his grip, hissing with pain with each jerk forward, abruptly aware of the harsh points of the cave floor digging into her shoulder blades and hips. Fire seared between her legs and she ground her teeth together, her temples throbbing.

        “P-please,” she bit out, jerking under him. She finally opened her eyes again and looked up at him. “It’s too much, _it hurts_ ,” she whimpered, burning red once more. Joshua’s eyes met hers and they were almost as coldly absent as they were the night he had burned her.

        “No.”

        She gasped and balled her hands into fists, her finger protesting loudly; Joshua finally sped up his pace, slapping hard against her hips. She shrieked—the brittle cries that spiked the cave now were anguished and pained with no trace of pleasure as she wrenched and resisted under his hands, but it was fruitless: she was too weak and tired from the debridement.

        After a couple minutes he finally released her arms and she jerked upward only to be seized roughly by the hips. His fingers dug in deep as he slammed her painfully against him, driving deep into her, sparking the nausea again. She cried out freely now, in too much pain to feel humiliation or embarrassment, each thrust punctuated with a wail of agony. He handled her easily, grunting low and deep with every push inside her, entirely ignoring her pained yelping. She screwed her eyes shut and clenched her fists against the furs beneath them while she prayed that he would finish soon, and that he might finally take pity and permit her Med-X.

        With his own guttural groan he came, smashing her hips against his pelvis and burying himself completely inside her once more as she let out a choked cry, curling forward and swallowing the bile that hit the back of her throat. He twitched and jerked inside her and the bandages around his mouth fluttered as he gasped before falling against her, his warm face resting between her breasts as he panted, her heartbeat drumming under his cheek. Joan collapsed to the floor again, her exhales thin and shaky as her thighs trembled and twitched. She inhaled deeply, her mouth uncomfortably dry as she licked her chapped lips.

        It was finally over.

        As he slowly began to soften inside of her, she stiffened. Agony radiated from the missing chunk of her finger and traveled up her arm, awakening the other pains in her body: bruises on her arms, her hips, her hand, all looping back to her core; she burned between her legs, all traces of orgasm banished by the hot angry pain that resided there now. The static in her mind faded as well as a slowly dawning horror rose over her like welling floodwaters, quickly submerging her.

        The Malpais Legate. The extermination of the White Legs, her finger engulfed in fire, his blackened red hands wrenching her undergarments apart and tearing them away as his icy blank eyes stared through her. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes and they shot open wide as she teetered on the edge of a cliff, stumbling off balance, terror swelling inside her at the things he had done, that she finally allowed herself to see with brutal clarity. She hovered over the edge and gazed into the looming dark chasm, on the verge of screaming.

        Abruptly he jerked away from her, gasping and breathing heavily again, and she was back in the Angel Cave, blinking rapidly at him, as if she were seeing him for the first time. He heaved and the terror inside of her shifted in a different direction—something was wrong. His eyes were clouded and frantic as he desperately fumbled at his vest, tearing it open as his chest expanded underneath it.

        “What’s wrong?” she asked quickly. She had never seen him panicked before and the fear in her stomach reached a crescendo when he didn’t respond. He jerked back and yanked himself out of her, leaving her cold and empty before scrambling backward, ripping his vest off and casting it onto the ground behind him. Her eyes were nearly as wide around as his, red ringed and frightened as he unbuttoned his shirt with shaky hands before shrugging out of it; beneath it he wore a faded white undergarment with embroidered symbols on either side of the chest, cast in minute relief from the lamp on his work table. The fabric was worn and thin enough that she could make out the lines of the bandages that enveloped his chest, shoulders, and stomach beneath.

        “What is it?” she cried again, fresh sweat beading her brow. She hefted herself up to her elbows, wincing at the pain in her groin as she managed to sit up, her back aching. He was gasping hard now, as though he were having a hard time taking in enough air.

        “Hot,” he grunted between clenched teeth. “Too hot.”

        He desperately clawed at the undergarment and yanked it over his head as horrified comprehension struck Joan; the majority of his sweat glands must have been seared shut. He wasn’t capable of regulating his body temperature. She watched with bated breath as he frantically started unwinding the bandages from his face next. They fell away and he began wheezing and grunting, the pain escaping him in ragged hisses as she stared at him with her jaw hanging slack. Even though she knew he suffered to expose his skin to the air, she had never seen him in pain before, and it frightened her.

        “Are… are you alright?” she asked tentatively as her hands fluttered uselessly, an urgent desire to help him eclipsing the fear.

        “ **It hurts**!” he bellowed at her, and she recoiled from him as though she’d been struck. She stared in horror as the last of the wrappings fell away from his face and neck.

        Angry red and black scars swirled over every exposed inch of his head and face, leaving barely unscathed patches of skin around his eyes and lips. There was no hair on his scalp, only gnarled twists of flesh that pinched and whorled in every direction, as though God had lain a bloodied shroud over him and intentionally mussed it, wrinkling and bunching the fabric with cruel calculation. His ears were nothing but small barely defined lumps of flesh on either side of his head and his nostrils flared widely, exposed and jutted upward. His eyes were bright in his face, illuminated with sharp red pinpricks of light from the oil lamp on his work table as he stared at her as she took all of him in. Heat radiated from him in waves as he finally began to cool down, his breathing slowing and returning to normal despite the wracking pain further contorting his features.

        “ _Well_?” he challenged her, rage bubbling up in his expression as he watched her staring at him. She closed her mouth, her eyes settling back to normal.

        “I want to help you,” she said. The horror melted away and she reached her hand out to him.

        His brows rose sharply as he looked down at her hand, surprise overwhelming the pain on his face. Joan shuffled on her knees, closing the distance between them. He stared at her hand; it was streaked heavily with blood, and still more flowed freely from her finger, pattering onto the stone floor and leaving a trail of thick, glossy droplets. He held up his own hand to still her.

        “Wait. Let me help you first,” he said, the anger evaporating with the heat that rolled off of him. He hauled himself to his feet, unsteady for a moment as his thighs quivered, before he tucked himself back into his jeans and crossed the room. Joan stared at his back as he walked away from her: thick bandages covered the entirety of his torso, looping across his shoulder blades, under his arms, and extending below the waistband of his jeans. Even without his shirt and vest to pad out his silhouette he was broad in the shoulders and chest. She watched him bend over and retrieve the pail of water that he must have brought it in earlier, when she had been lost in her thoughts before the debridement. He carried it back and sat beside her again, still gritting his teeth with pain. Joan was touched.

        “We can bandage you back up first,” she said. “I know how much pain you’re in.”

        “It’s fine,” he replied, taking her hand and dipping it into the pail of water, swirling it red and pink, already working his fingers against hers and gently cleansing the ragged wound in her finger. “It’s nothing I haven’t endured before. You need this more than I do right now.”

        Pinkness flared in Joan’s face as he washed her hand for her, as tender and thorough as he had been the first time he had cleaned her. After a few minutes he leaned over and reached out to his discarded vest and fumbled inside one of the pockets, drawing out a roll of gauze. He bandaged her finger once more, setting the dressings much more tightly than usual to combat the flow of blood before sitting back and squeezing his eyes shut, his jaw clenching with pain.

        “What can I do for you?” she asked. He opened his eyes again and studied her for a moment. She could see caution there before he relaxed, some of the tension bleeding out of his scarred features.

        “I need a fresh pail of water. I have to wash my face before bandaging it back up,” he said.

        Joan picked herself up to her feet obligingly, her skirt falling back to her knees. She smoothed her grey undershirt over her breasts and buttoned her white dress shirt back over it before pulling her tie back into place. She didn’t bother tucking her shirt back in or rebuttoning her suit jacket. Her muscles seared and ached but she ignored them, bending and picking the pail up and carrying it with her as she exited the cave, heading back outside to the Dead Horses camp.

        It was still raining heavily outside and she paused for a moment, letting the cool water run over her face as she tilted it to the sky. Raindrops clung to her hair and speckled her glasses and she was reminded of a phrase she had heard once, though she wasn’t quite sure where: God is in the rain. She embraced the feeling for a moment before stepping forward hastily, walking out into the rippling black current of the Eastern Virgin and dragging the pail through it, filling it up with fresh water. She carried it back inside quickly, mindful of the pain Joshua was suffering as he waited on her.

        He was as she had left him, still sitting with one knee drawn up in his chamber of the Angel Cave. He craned his neck to look at her as she entered and he extended his hand for the pail. She held it just out of his grasp.

        “May I?” she asked. He glanced up and stared piercingly at her for a beat. A hard glint of lamplight reflected off the bottom rim of her glasses as she stared back at him.

        “You couldn’t possibly—”

        “It can’t be that difficult. I’m doing this,” Joan cut him off. His eyebrows shot up for a second before lowering and the two stared hard at each other. Joan continued to hold the pail just beyond his reach. She knew he could easily have leaned forward and seized it from her, but he settled for a battle of egos instead. After a minute he pressed his eyes closed and relented, his jaw drumming with pain.

        “ _Fine_ ,” he said stiffly, turning and facing forward again. Joan circled him and sat back down in front of him, placing the pail between them. He sat with his eyes closed and his shoulders slumped as he rested his hands in his lap, red fingertips dangling on either side of his still unzipped fly. Joan reached inside the jacket of her suit and tugged out a small white cloth. Joshua cracked one of his eyes open at her.

        “That had better be clean.”

        “You have my word,” Joan replied as she dipped the cloth into the pail of fresh water, swirling it until it was saturated. She lifted it and wrung it out until it was barely dripping before leaning forward and poising the cloth just over Joshua’s cheek. She hesitated. Pressing her lips together she was suddenly nervous, feeling somehow that this was infinitely more intimate than what had just transpired between them.

        “Don’t hesitate, lest you become a pillar of salt,” Joshua said snidely.

        Joan frowned at the challenge and pressed the cloth to his cheek. He jerked under her touch, hissing and breathing heavily. The corner of her lip twitched with satisfaction and she pulled away, dipping the cloth into the water and wringing it out again. Soon she had fallen into a steady rhythm, wiping away at the ravaged surface of his skin before dipping the cloth and repeating. The hills and valleys of his face shone damp and shiny after several minutes as she pressed ahead, taking care around his eyes, nose and mouth. He continued to flinch with pain under her touch, breathing raggedly; she ignored it, hardening herself against him.

        After a long while she was finally finished washing him and let the cloth—less white and pristine than it had been—slither into the sullied water of the pail. Joshua pulled away from her, reaching behind him to his SLCPD vest and withdrawing a large roll of gauze.

        “I’ll bandage myself. I have a specific way that I prefer to have it done,” he said. Joan sat back and watched him as he worked: slowly he looped the roll of gauze under his jaw and around the top of his head until he was satisfied with the coverage, before adjusting the direction of the bandages, lacing them horizontally and obscuring his forehead, his nose, his lips. Finally he wound the dressings around his neck, pulling the roll of gauze around and around his throat before breaking the fabric and tucking the end into the bandages around his collarbone. He looked at her, the Joshua Graham she had come to know.

        “Thank you,” he said.

        “You’re welcome,” she replied quietly, flushing pink around the ears and throat. Now that he was bandaged again the situation struck her—what they had just done, how she had just seen him. It was as if they had reached a strange equilibrium and she wasn’t sure what to do with it.

        “Thank you too,” she said after a beat. “For taking care of my finger.”

        “It’s… the least I can do,” Joshua replied, casting his eyes away from her for the first time. “It’s late. We should rest,” he abruptly changed the subject. Joan nodded in agreement.

        “It’s raining outside. You should sleep in the cave tonight,” Joshua continued as he pulled himself to his feet. Joan stared up at him as he turned to walk away.

        “After all that, you’re just going to leave?” she asked, surprising herself with her boldness.

        Joshua halted, turning to face her with his eyebrows arched. She was internally satisfied that he looked like he wasn’t sure what to do.

        After a beat he crossed the room and twisted the small key on the side of the oil lamp, drawing the heavy wick into the base until the flame was extinguished, flooding the cave with darkness. She couldn’t see anything and blinked back spots in her eyes as she heard his heavy footsteps return to her.

        She startled as she felt him sit down beside her before he stretched out on the Yao Guai fur, the curve of his waist pressing against her hip. She stilled and blushed, thankful that it was pitch black in the cave.

        “Lie down then,” he commanded her. Coldness rushed into her fingertips again. Even in the total darkness she could feel aggravation roll off of him and he grabbed her upper arm and gave it a hard jerk. She complied and sprawled out her legs, lying next to him at the most respectful distance she could muster while still remaining on the fur. After a moment he rolled over with his back to her and that bothered her more. She lay stiffly next to him, suddenly not tired at all, listening to his measured and steady breathing while her eyes adjusted to the blackness.

        After a few minutes she pulled off her glasses and tucked the arms neatly across each other before sliding them onto the floor beside her. She took a steady and determined breath before rolling over onto her side, facing Joshua’s back. She hesitated for only a moment before snaking an arm around his waist. He twitched under her touch and she paused, nervous that she had crossed some invisible and inappropriate boundary. After a beat he relaxed and she took that as a sign to proceed—she pressed into his back, burying her face between his shoulder blades and breathing in deeply, letting her fingers skim over his bandaged stomach before settling in, pressing her palm against the symmetrical pads of his abdomen. She could feel his muscles tense underneath her and she breathed with slow and steady deliberation. After a while his breathing fell into rhythm with hers and she could feel him relax back into her embrace. She closed her eyes and eventually fell into a quiet and peaceful rest.


	6. A Pain That I'm Used To

Chapter 6: A Pain That I’m Used To

_I can't conceal what I feel, what I know is real; no mistaking the faking; I care_

        Joan blinked. A field of white stretched before her eyes and she blinked again, disoriented. Her hands were against something warm and solid; abruptly the memory of the night before came back to her and she breathed in deeply. _Joshua_.

        Her fingers pressed into his stomach, and she buried her face into his shoulder blade. He still seemed to be asleep.

        Seized with boldness, she let her hand wander lower, her fingertips grazing the frayed edge of his jeans. She was at the threshold of unbuttoning them when his hand shot down and grabbed her own, his rough fingers digging into her palm.

        “Oh, I didn’t realize you were awake,” she said as he pulled away from her, taking all the warmth with him.

        Joshua sat up with his back facing her; she reached behind herself to scrape at the floor of the Angel Cave for her glasses before sweeping them back onto her face.

        “Is something wrong?” she asked hesitantly. Joshua stiffened. He sat still for a moment before turning around so that he was facing her. Joan glanced down at her Pipboy—it was still quite early, earlier than either of them usually woke up. _Time enough for something more_ , she thought impishly. She reached out for him again and this time he scooted backward, pulling out of the short reach of her arm. She cocked her head at him.

        “I don’t think that would be wise,” Joshua said. His voice was still raspy with sleep, despite the ever present alertness of his eyes. Joan frowned.

        “I… I didn’t mean to assume,” she said awkwardly, her cheeks warm. Joshua cleared his throat before looking away from her.

        “Since we’ve cut away the dead flesh from your finger, you should start considering your trip back to the Mojave. I’m sure your finger will be functional again soon.”

        Joan’s chin dropped as she gaped at him.

        “But… last night,” she began, scrambling to sit up as well. Her hips ached. Joshua looked away for a beat longer before glancing at her; she continued quickly, her heart beginning to squeeze in her chest.

        “I—I don’t want to go back to the Mojave. I want to stay here, in Zion. With you.”

        She paused, her face growing radiantly crimson. Joshua was staring at her again, his eyebrows arched high on his forehead, nearly under the mask of dressings. She did not need to imagine what the flesh beneath those bandages looked like anymore.

        She swallowed; she had seen him, perhaps more intimately than anyone else ever had. A bubble of affection burst within her and she was unable to contain it.

        “I… I love you!” she confessed, the words coming out as fast as machinegun fire. Joshua’s eyes widened. Anxiety clawed at her chest and stomach, and abruptly she felt the need to prove her words to him, to make them tangible and solid. She jerked her left arm up to her face and Joshua watched her blankly as she struggled against the small latch that held her Pipboy in place on her arm. She inhaled sharply; something deep within her chest pinched with anguish as the Pipboy dropped to the floor, rolling over onto its screen like a dead radroach. She jerked her eyes back to his, her arm cold.

        “I mean it,” she said quickly. He glanced down at the Pipboy and she wondered for a beat if he could even begin to comprehend the significance it held to her. “I’m so happy here, Joshua, it’s peaceful, it’s beautiful, I lo—”

        “You don’t love me,” Joshua cut her off. Joan flinched. He was looking up at her now, his blue eyes sharp.

        “What? Of course I d—”

        “ _No_ ,” Joshua interrupted her again. He pulled himself to his feet, his back to her as he plucked his shirt and SLCPD vest from the cavern floor.

        “I was afraid this might happen,” he sighed, twisting back around and looking down at her. She was still sitting on the floor, her face pale as he continued speaking.

        “We barely know each other, Joan. I should have known better to than to… lose myself last night. That was a mistake. I have made more than enough of them.” He tugged on his faded white undergarment, tucking it primly into his jeans.

        Joshua grew blurry in her vision; Joan swallowed past the razor sharp lump that had formed in her throat. Her hands were icy, numb enough that she couldn’t feel the pain in her finger anymore.

        “A _mistake_?”

        Color returned to her cheeks at the naked hurt in her voice and Joshua looked away from her, pulling on his woven white shirt. He brushed dirt away from the black dashes that adorned his upper arm and tugged the black band back into place over his elbow before looking at her again. He seemed to waver between sympathy and stern resolve.

        “Yes, a mistake. I’ve made far too many, and that’s just within the past week alone. Put that thing back on your arm—you need to return to the Mojave, as soon as you’re able.”

        As Joshua closed his vest, Joan glanced down at her Pipboy. The tears that had been threatening to spill from her eyes began to stream down her cheeks as she looked at it: from this vantage point she could see the rough rectangle that she had carved into the side of the case only a few weeks ago. Pressing her eyes closed, she bowed her head further, the tears coming in a hot rush down her neck and bleeding into the collar of her dress shirt.

        “ _After everything_ _you did to me_?” Her voice was choked and wrenched as she dragged her hands across her face to try to control herself; some of the tears bled into the bandages that tightly bound her finger.

        Joshua ignored her; he strode toward the mouth of the chamber before passing through it and disappearing into the winding pathway that lead to the Dead Horse’s camp below.

        In his absence, Joan mashed her face into her hands and a terrible keening noise erupted from her throat before she gave in and sobbed, her chest swollen and aching as her cries echoed back to her, alone in the gloom.

***

        For the next few days Joan moped around the Angel Cave. Mostly she curled up on the Yao Guai fur that was still spread out on the floor, mere feet away from Joshua’s work table. Her eyes and lips were swollen and red from the tears she had shed in alternation with the rage that overcame her in sporadic bursts. She had nearly smashed the oil lamp in one such fit, but restrained herself at the last moment; instead she settled for slamming her fist against the rough stone wall until her hand ached and bled.

        Joshua Graham had left the camp for a while, Waking Cloud told her a day or two later when she tentatively decided to check on Joan.

        “It is not forever,” she said.

        Joan glanced up at her from where she was curled up on the floor, her black hair fanned around her face. Her desperado hat had been tossed to the other side of the cave. Standing beside Waking Cloud was another woman.

        “Yah ah Tahg,” she said softly, looking at Joan with warmth and sympathy. At first Joan thought that she was unusually chubby for a tribal; then she noticed the way her small hands were cradled around her belly, and it dawned on Joan that she was pregnant. She looked away, her face sour.

        “Sometimes the men do that,” the woman continued, either oblivious to Joan or not caring that she was being ignored. “He needs to clear his head, yes? He will be back soon, I am sure.”

        Joan twisted her head away, hot color rising in her cheeks at the fact that the entire camp apparently had some idea of what had transpired.

        “This is Passing Dawn,” Waking Cloud introduced her. “Why don’t you come down to the camp with us and have some food?”

        “We are having bighorner meat today. You must be hungry. Waking Cloud told me you like the fire, so I can make yours as spicy as you like,” Passing Dawn offered.

        Joan pressed her cheek to the floor and continued to remain silent. After several minutes she eventually heard the soft shuffle of the women exiting the chamber; she curled even more tightly in on herself, her stomach and heart aching.

        Another day passed that Joan spent curled in a ball on the fur, her knees drawn to her chest with her arms wrapped around them, glaring morosely at the stack of crates that sat beneath the ammunition reloading bench that stood beside Joshua’s work table. Waking Cloud had returned to try and coax her into having some food, but Joan obstinately ignored her. Finally Waking Cloud settled for leaving a bowl of some bland looking porridge on the floor in front of Joan. It sat for another day before Waking Cloud came back and snatched it up.

        “Food is a valuable resource here, it should not be wasted,” Waking Cloud sternly reprimanded her. Joan was still lying on the ground. Her suit was growing uncomfortably stiff and wrinkly from not being washed or changed, and her glasses were smudged and dirty.

        “Then take some caps out of my bag, if it’s that goddamn important to you,” Joan murmured balefully. She ran her thumb across the tacky, dirty dressing on her forefinger. Waking Cloud arched her eyebrows at her.

        “I know you are not one of us, but I would appreciate if you did not take the Father’s name in such a way,” she scolded. Joan narrowed her eyes before springing up onto her fingertips; Waking Cloud quickly stepped away from her as Joan jumped to her feet. She snatched her Pipboy from the floor and swung it back onto her wrist, locking it in place with a hard snap.

        “Yeah, you know what? I’m _not_ fucking one of you,” Joan spat, her heels slapping the ground as she paced erratically around the chamber. Waking Cloud’s expression shifted from anger to concern.

        “Joan, I did not—”

        “No!” Joan cut her off shrilly. She drew her foot back and kicked the tattered remains of her underwear—they fluttered away from the sharp tip of her dress shoe, coming to rest somewhere beneath Joshua’s work table.

        “You’re absolutely right, I am _not_ one of you, so there’s no goddamn point in me being here. I’m fucking leaving.”

        Quickly she made her way through the Angel Cave, her joints and legs stiff from being curled up for so long. A number of Sorrows and Dead Horses—one of them Passing Dawn, she briefly recognized—glanced at her; she glared back at them as she stormed through the camp, seizing her pack and slinging it over her shoulder. She didn’t bid any of them goodbye as she trudged through the Eastern Virgin, rapidly clenching her hands in and out of distressed fists, the hem of her skirt soaked through and spreading up her thighs as she waded through the cool waters. Her finger shrieked with pain but she didn’t care.

        The walk back to the Southern Passage went quickly—Joan did not stop to admire the lush scenery or the smoky scent of sage. She turned her nose up at the mangled heads that lined the side of the road, holding her breath as she walked past them so as not to take in their toxic stench.

        She was crossing the long rope bridge that spanned the river when she spotted men in front of her. A small group of Dead Horses stood idling about in the sun, exchanging laughter and good natured punches. Joan squinted angrily at them.

        “Get out of my way,” she said as politely as she could manage as she approached them. They halted and turned to face her, standing shoulder to shoulder and blocking her path. Joan’s hand twitched; the part of her that didn’t care about anything at all anymore now thought of drawing her sniper rifle off her back and giving them proper motivation to scatter.

        “Sorry,” one of them said. He was clearly the most proficient at speaking English, judging from the blank expressions on the faces of the other men. “Joshua gave us strict orders that you have to stay here for now. He said it would be unsafe for you to travel until you are healed.”

        Joan clenched her hand into a fist so tight that a well of blood rushed up beneath the bandages of her finger and soaked through them.

        “Get the _fuck_ out of my way,” she snarled. The men stood and stared at her as though she hadn’t said anything at all.

        “Joshua say so,” another one chimed in. He crossed his arms as if to assert the finality of his statement.

        For a flash Joan saw red—it was ridiculously easy to imagine these young men as Caesar and Lucius, their heads impaled on pointed spears, their mouths sagging open and bloodied. She spun around hotly, willing away the grisly image. She pressed her eyes closed and took a steadying breath, her pulse slowing from the frantic pace it had shot up to.

        “ _Fine_ ,” she said through gritted teeth. She marched back across the bridge, and it swayed under her rapid footsteps. A mad part of her thought of turning and charging at them to try to break through their ranks, but she squashed the notion down, not wanting to add the humiliation of being physically restrained to the steadily growing list of shit she’d endured over the past week.

        Still carrying her pack, she stomped around the valley. She wanted to scream, she wanted to cry, she wanted to disappear and reappear back at the Lucky 38. _Joshua isn’t the only one who’s made some fucking mistakes_ , she thought angrily. She was furious that she had opened herself up to him so nakedly, so trustingly. After all that they had shared. After what he had done to her. She glanced down at her finger. The bandages were beginning to turn brown around the edges of the blood that had seeped through. She curled her fingers into a fist again, ignoring it.

        A much deeper part of her longed to return to him and plead her case again. She did love him—how dare he be so presumptuous about the inner workings of her head, her heart? _What the fuck does he even know_ , she thought bitterly. She was walking blindly now, cutting a path through a nest of cars on one of the many crumbling bridges that dotted the valley.

        Frustration cut the affection she felt for him—she was sick of this. He had ignored her every time he was unhappy with her, as well as after he had burned her. And now he was doing it again. How could such a pathetic man be the Legate of Caesar’s Legion, she thought as she squeezed her finger again. He ran away every time there was trouble between them, yet he didn’t even have the decency to let her leave on her own terms.

        Her finger stung and she paused, setting her pack down. She longed for Med-X—her case was still sitting just as Joshua had left it, on top of the tallest shelf of his chamber, back at the Angel Cave. She glanced around; if Joshua really was out clearing his head, or doing whatever he was doing, then she was more than safe to briefly return and fetch it. She snatched up her pack again and adjusted her course, making her way back to the camp.

        Within an hour she was wading through the knee deep waters of the Eastern Virgin again. As she rounded the corner to enter the inlet she was reminded of her first night here. It was only a week or so ago—it felt like a lifetime now.

        For an instant she regretted not listening to Arcade and Boone advising with her to stay home. Even Yes Man had encouraged her to stay in the Mojave. But she had been determined then, riding high on her victory over the Legion and the NCR, so eager to tell Joshua that she had personally destroyed the man that had burned him, had ruined his life. To show him that she was capable, that she was worthy; that she was his equal. That, like the Father in the Caves, she could protect her people.

        She paused, staring down at the rippling waters. The regret morphed into disappointment in herself. She had been willing to abandon them, and for what purpose? For a man? Men were plentiful. _Joshua isn’t anything special_ , she scoffed, before her chin crinkled; she was unable to believe her own lie. She swiped at her eyes and continued into the inlet, her chest aching once again.

        She stopped at the edge of the water and wrung out the hem of her skirt, water raining down onto the sand and absorbing into it, leaving a spattering of dark spots. Despite everything, she still wanted to stay. She sniffed and glanced up before jumping.

        Joshua Graham was sitting in front of the fire, immersed in his bible. He was oblivious to her presence, sitting as though there was nothing wrong, as though he hadn’t hurt her in a thousand different ways. Her face grew hot and she abandoned her pack, marching up to him.

        “You’re just going to fucking sit there and read?” Her voice came out in a hoarse bark; he glanced up at her, his book still splayed open.

        “What else do you expect me to be doing?”

        Fury shot through her—before she was even aware of what she was doing, she had slapped the book out of his hands, and the spine bent as it struck the sand, the pages crumpling. Joshua didn’t react at all at first; Joan flinched as he slowly redirected his gaze toward her, as still as a statue.

        “I have said it before—you are a _guest_ here, and you _will_ act like it.”

        Despite standing over him, she wanted to cower and shrink from the hardness in his voice. He abruptly stood; her face paled and she recoiled away from him again. Brushing past her, he strode into the Angel Cave, stopping only to snatch up his bible and dust the sand from between the pages. She took a shaky breath before jogging after him, the fear giving way to the hurt that still consumed her.

        “You can’t just keep running away from me,” she snapped, following him inside. He was already nearly to his personal chamber—his stride was much longer than hers and she nearly had to run just to keep up with him. His broad shoulders were stiff as he finally entered the chamber, still ignoring her. She glanced around and her heart hurt again to think of all that had transpired here.

        “You—you burned me! Then you… You…” she bit her tongue, unable to bring herself to say what else he had done, her face flushing crimson to even think of it.

        Joshua spun around, his eyes blazing. She tripped over her feet as he marched her backwards, her back striking the wall as he towered over her, looking down on her.

        “I didn’t do anything to you that you didn’t _deserve_.”

        She shrank beneath him, her eyes wide.

        “I just want you to… to know what you did! Because I want to stay here!” Against her better judgment, the truth came bubbling out anyway. Frightening as he looked standing over her, she still wanted to close the gap that kept springing up between them, to mend the fracture that kept them apart. He had allowed her to hold him the night they had been together. He clearly still cared about her safety, given that he had ordered her to stay within the confines of Zion.

        Her expression hardened with resolve; she would _make_ him see what was between them.

        “Stop being an idiot,” he continued sharply. “As soon as your finger heals, return to your filthy city.”

        “But… but everything changed,” Joan stammered. “I love Vegas, but I’d rather be with you. I run the city but… but it’s not the same. Do you really think I enjoy peddling prostitution and chems and everything else? Of course I don’t! They needed someone to look after them, but they’re safe now. I can do anything I want. Why is it so wrong of me to stay here?”

        Joshua stared at her, some of the heat melting away from his expression. Joan sensed that he was weighing her words and she bit her lip as she watched him. Being in such close proximity to him was making her face grow warm again, in spite of everything.

        After a tense moment, Joshua stepped away from her.

        “Because I say it is.”

        Joan’s heart dropped again.

        “Why! Am I not good enough for you? What did I do wrong?” she begged. Joshua hardened against her and thrust his arm at the mouth of the cavern.

        “Just go. I don’t care what you do, just get out of here. You’re not to travel back to the Mojave until your finger is healed, but the rest of the valley is open to you.”

        Joan had just opened her mouth to reply to him when he jerked forward, his bandaged hands balled into fists. She hunched back against the wall, quickly pressing her lips shut again. Joshua glared at her before walking away and sitting at his work table once more. She could see the tense agitation in his forearms as he picked up a pistol and dismantled it. She stood watching him for a moment before he glanced icily at her; she turned, making her way out of the cave, blinking back tears once again.

        She walked out into the harsh afternoon sunlight and sat down on the cinderblock Joshua had been occupying ten minutes earlier, reading his bible without a care in the world. She leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm. _Maybe he’s right_ , she thought as she stared at the rippling waters of the inlet. She really did love New Vegas, and she supposed she didn’t _truly_ want to leave it forever. But the city was in more than capable hands now—Yes Man was completely and utterly dependable, especially with Cass monitoring him. They would be fine if she was gone for a few months, she knew they would be. The NCR had fled back to their side of the California line, the Legion was gone; the Mojave was safer than it had ever been, even under Robert House’s calculating eye.

        She let her mind wander back to Joshua. He had to return at least some of her feelings, she mused. He had burned her, yes, but he had cared for her since then, had he not? She glanced down at her dirtied finger. Barring the past few days, he had kept it as meticulously clean as his own bandaging.

        She flushed pink, recalling the night they had shared. She knew he was no virgin; in fact she thought he might have treated any number of slave girls fairly similarly during his time as Legate. But it seemed terribly unlikely that he had been with anyone in the nearly six years that had elapsed since Caesar had thrown him off the side of the Grand Canyon.

        She pursed her lips together. There was something between them, even if he didn’t want to face it. Her mind wandered further back, to what she had learned from Ulysses. Fate had linked the two, she had learned then. She had helped him once, long ago, before either of them had ever met—at least if what Ulysses had said had been even remotely truthful. She did not believe in coincidence.

        Her mind came back to the present. Joshua had let her sleep beside him, her arms wrapped around him. The corners of her lips twitched upward to recall the feeling of his torso beneath her hands, warm and solid. He had let her hold him all throughout the night.

        For a long while she sat outside, gazing over the water, her mind wandering, mulling over everything she had been through. Her second trip to Zion hadn’t been much better than her first, but she still enjoyed it here. The valley was silent and peaceful. Even the Dead Horses and Sorrows were quiet today, keeping mostly to themselves on this bright afternoon. Distantly she could hear the sound of a hawk shrieking before a shadow passed over her, and she twisted to look up.

        Joshua was looking down at her, the lines around his eyes worn and tired looking. He stood silently for a moment before extending his hand out to her. She stared at it with her brows arched, and he sighed.

        “Your hand looks filthy—come to the water, and I’ll wash it for you,” he said. Joan couldn’t suppress the flush of color that spread in her neck and cheeks.

        “… Are you sure?” she asked. She was abruptly humiliated at how she had thrown herself on his mercy in the cave, begging him to let her stay, demanding to know why she wasn’t good enough. She cast her eyes to the ground in shame. Joshua bent over her and gently took her hand, pulling her to her feet.

        “It’s fine,” he said briefly, leading her to the water’s edge and taking a seat, inviting her to sit beside him. Joan bit her lip, a small light of hope igniting in her.

        Joshua narrowed his eyes at the dirty tangle of bandages on her finger as he unwrapped them; Joan sucked in breath, squeezing her eyes shut against the flood of pain as the raw wound was exposed to the fresh air.

        “You should pray to God that this doesn’t become infected,” he muttered tersely as he lowered her hand to the water and began to wash it, just as he had the first time. “Infection is the number one concern with burns of this severity—even days or months from now you could develop an infection, and that would be it for this finger. Be sure to keep your hands as clean as possible at all times.”

        Joan listened to him as he continued to lecture her about her burn, staring keenly at him as he worked.

        “So it would be alright if I stayed here a little longer then?” she asked him once he had finally grown silent. He turned his sharp gaze from her finger to her eyes before studying her carefully.

        “… A little while longer, yes,” he replied cautiously. “You will need to return to your people in the Mojave at some point, but I see no harm in making sure that your finger is well cared for in the meantime.”

        Joan smiled at him gratefully.

        “Thank you,” she said before casting her eyes downward again. “I’m sorry for yelling at you earlier. You didn’t deserve that, especially not after everything you’ve done for me.”

        She risked looking up at Joshua again, and he looked much more even and mellow than he had all afternoon. He finished cleansing her finger and pulled her dripping hand out of the water before fishing around in his vest pocket for the gauze that she had become intimately familiar with.

        “We are all sinners, Joan. Forgive and forget.”

        Joan smiled at him again and they stood together before making their way back to the campfire.

        She wasn’t ready to let this go—not yet.


	7. Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition

Chapter 7: Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition

_We're all between perdition and the deep blue sea_

January, 2282

        “Go with God, sister.”

        Joshua Graham watched Joan turn and hop down from the ledge his work stable stood on. He watched her trot away from him until she disappeared around the corner of the corridor that led down to the camp below. For a beat he watched the empty entranceway before refocusing on his work.

        A few minutes passed as he finished cleaning and reassembling the pistol he had been working on before he set it down. It struck the wood of his work table with a soft, final sounding _thock_.

        Joshua stood. More out of habit than anything else, he double checked his own pistol, which was secured neatly to his hip as it always was, before setting off for the lower portion of the cave. From within it, he could see only a fragment of the camp outside, but he was satisfied that Joan had already departed. Passing through the mouth of the cave, he nodded to a handful of Dead Horse warriors that were sparring outside before entering the Eastern Virgin.

        He maintained a steady pace as he made his way up the river. Joan and Follows-Chalk only had about ten minute’s head start on him; he didn’t want to run into them prematurely, nor did he want to lose track of them. Unlikely, given that he was certain Joan was making her way across the valley to the Narrows, to deliver to Daniel the items that he had requested of her. Only a half an hour prior, she’d been standing in front of him in the Angel Cave, informing him that she’d gathered everything before turning quite serious.

        She had told him then that Follows-Chalk possessed a desire to leave southern Utah, and that he wanted to see the civilized lands. She bore challenge on her face as she spoke, as if she expected a theatrical argument out of him; she looked nearly deflated as he calmly told her that he didn’t particularly care what Follows-Chalk chose to do. He was a man, after all—he was capable of making his own decisions.

_Better that Follows-Chalk decide for himself, rather than waiting for me to lead him by the nose_ , Joshua thought, walking up the battered road that led into the heart of the valley, the damp legs of his jeans rubbing uncomfortably against his shins.

        From up ahead, he heard a gunshot, and Joshua quickly stepped off the road, hastening toward the source of the commotion. Tucking himself behind a crop of rocks and mesquite bushes, he spied Joan, Follows-Chalk, and a handful of White Leg warriors. The White Legs were carrying the “storm drums” that they had become known for; Joshua’s hand flew to his hip before tensing.

_No_ , he reminded himself. Joan had been in Zion for a few days now, and she had been looking after herself well enough. She had come back to him in one piece, at any rate. He hadn’t had terribly high hopes for her to safely procure the items that Daniel requested, so he had sent Follows-Chalk with her. Follows-Chalk was barely a man himself, but it was better than sending the tiny waif of a woman out into the wilderness alone.

        Joshua leaned around the tall red rock so that he could better see what was going on, and his eyebrows shot up.

        He had peeked just in time to see Joan whip around, drawing her rifle up to her shoulder and effortlessly dispatching a White Leg warrior in a single fluid motion. It wasn’t a shot to the body either—his head had exploded in a thick red mist, the now decapitated body collapsing to its knees before pitching backward. This wasn’t a particularly lucky shot, either, judging by what she did next—without lowering her rifle, she swung it around and eliminated the final White Leg that was threatening them, taking his head clean off his shoulders. Follows-Chalk was standing beside her with his own gun drawn, but hovering uselessly as she eradicated the threat.

        The hand that had been fingering the snakeskin grip of his pistol relaxed, falling back to his thigh. Joan had done more than merely survive; she didn’t look as though she needed any help at all. If anything, it seemed she was protecting Follows-Chalk more than he was protecting her, Joshua thought with dry disappointment in the young man. Still, she was small and thin, even for a woman; she had the advantage so long as she had that rifle of hers, but he couldn’t imagine that she would fare very well if even a single White Leg managed to surprise her and get too close for her to use it effectively.

        He would intervene if that happened; though he was following her with the purpose of gauging her, he certainly wasn’t going to allow an innocent woman to be killed while traveling across Zion, not so long as he was present to do something about it.

        Joan and Follows-Chalk dusted themselves off before reloading—Joan reloaded, that is; Follows-Chalk did nothing more than tuck his pistol back into the holster at his side—and setting off again. They were definitely heading towards the Narrows, which was good. Joshua glanced at the sky above; the sun was hanging low against the horizon, and he hoped that they wouldn’t stop to rest for the night. Slung across Joan’s back was an enormous prewar military surplus bag, and he had glimpsed the sleeping bag inside of it, amongst all the other supplies and kit she carried.

        She was surprisingly tough in the outdoors, which didn’t correspond at all with the look she cultivated for herself: dressed in a prim black suit and severely tightened necktie, she looked like she would have been more at home in the headquarter offices of one of the major caravans in California, than outside tumbling in the dusty desert. It was terribly impractical to run around and climb mountains and wade through rivers in a knee length skirt, but he had to admit that she was managing herself better than he anticipated.

        Joshua continued to follow them from a safe distance, staying out of sight as the sun lowered further and further toward the edge of the horizon, casting a warm pink glow across the belly of the valley. Twice more, Joan and Follows-Chalk encountered rogue groups of White Legs; both times Joan dispatched them. One time was before any of them were even aware of her presence—the second time, Follows-Chalk actually managed to make himself useful, shooting dead a White Leg that drew dangerously close to Joan, armed with a flaming stick. Joshua hung back and watched each time, ready to involve himself if necessary; with each successful encounter, he grew steadily more confident with his plan.

        He knew that Daniel was going to try to talk to her about what to do with the Sorrows and White Legs. He and Daniel had circled the same topic nearly constantly since Joshua arrived in the valley a few months ago. Irritating, since Joshua was here to help them; he had thought that Daniel would defer to his experience in these matters, but he had not. Each time the topic came up, they had exchanged heated words.

        Daniel was naïve. He thought that the Sorrows should flee into the Grand Staircase and abandon Zion. How wasteful it would have been to do that. Joshua had seen much of the wastes, certainly more than Daniel ever had; Daniel could not comprehend that Zion was an utter rarity, preserved in a way that few other places were. With its lush flora and clean water that bore no hint of radiation, Zion was a treasure, a gift from God, and it should be celebrated as such. Even the people that had lived before the Great War believed so, if the advertisements that he had found within the prewar buildings dotting the park were reliable.

        Joshua needed Joan, in more ways than he had told her; if she could see things as he saw them—and he suspected that she did—then the Sorrows could stay in their ancestral home, and the White Legs could be eliminated. It was better this way, safer; did Daniel really think that the White Legs would just retreat back to the Great Salt Lake with their tails between their legs? No. Even if they abandoned the idea of joining Edward and his infernal Legion, they would just seek out other tribes and caravans. More blood would be spilled. More lives would be wasted.

        It was better to crush them now.

        It was only practical. It came with no more malice than the task of putting down a rabid beast; an unfortunate act, but something that had to be done, for the safety and protection of all.

        He could only pray that Joan would understand things as he did. Darkly amusing, that it would take a gentile to make Daniel see the light.

        He didn’t want to get ahead of himself though; Joan was a woman after all, and they tended to err on the softer and more trusting side of things.

        Night had fallen by the time Joan and Follows-Chalk reached the Narrows, and it was slightly more difficult to keep track of them. Still, Joshua managed, and he tried to minimize the sloshing of his footsteps as he treaded up the stream that led into the Sorrows camp. He did not enter it though—he lingered just outside the tall stone passageway, leaning against it and resting his hands on his hips.

        He heard Joan speaking, barely twenty feet away from him; a Sorrows woman—Waking Cloud, so she said—was introducing herself to Joan. He stared up at the brilliant, starry night sky as he listened to them talk. A small smile curved across his lips as he heard Joan correct Waking Cloud on her confusion as to who “the father in the caves” was; nearly every single visitor and caravanner he met had turned their nose up at the concept of God, but Joan alone had devoured his words. She had leaned toward him as he spoke to her of Christ with naked interest dancing in her dark brown eyes, and for a wonderful moment it had felt like a return to the days of his youth as a traveling Missionary, before everything had gone wrong.

        He knew she was eager to get back to the Mojave—back to the upcoming war with the Legion—but perhaps he could foster and nurture some of this interest before she departed. The smile slid away as it occurred to him that she would probably need it; the chances of her surviving a war with the Legion seemed infinitesimal. Perhaps that would be better though— _if_ she survived, he almost didn’t want to contemplate what would become of her. She was proudly proclaiming herself as the leader of Edward’s _precious_ New Vegas; he knew that Edward wouldn’t hesitate to make the same kind of example out of her that he had made of Joshua himself.

        He didn’t dare confide any of that to Joan though—the issue with the White Legs was far more pressing, and he couldn’t risk her deciding to abandon New Vegas and stay here in the safety of Zion. The valley did not belong to her; it would be better for her to return home, and leave the Sorrows to their sanctuary. Besides… he had seen how efficiently she had taken care of herself out in the valley. Perhaps she and the NCR would stand a chance after all, even if that chance was beyond slim.

        He pushed the thoughts away as Joan finally wrapped up her conversation with Waking Cloud and made her way up the rest of the stream, with Follows-Chalk in tow. From this distance, it was much more difficult to catch snatches of her conversation with Daniel; Joshua sidled closer to the camp, straining his ears to listen—particularly difficult, given the bandages that further muffling his hearing—as his boots cut through the water. Most of the conversation was unintelligible gibberish until they began to speak about him, and Daniel’s voice rose with passion.

        “— _a monument both to God's unending forgiveness and to humanity's unfathomable capacity for cruelty. It's written on every inch of his body_ —”

        Joshua leaned harder against the wall of the Narrows, his eyelids sliding downward until his pale blue eyes were aggravated slits in his face.

        Daniel continued, his heated voice carrying across the camp.

        “ _When you look at him, do you only see a man of God? Beneath those bandages, he is_ burned flesh _. As he burns, so does he consume everyone around him_.”

        Joshua let out a muted snort. Daniel couldn’t even begin to comprehend was it was like to be consumed; idiotic that he thought that it was _Joshua_ doing the consuming. As if Daniel was any better, trying to sell Joan on his naïve, pacifist spiel as if he were peddling cheap trinkets.

        “ _Joshua wants to fight because the White Legs have stoked the naked flame inside of him. You,_ you _see the light, but do not yet feel the heat. I can pray that you never will, but it isn't up to me and it isn't up to God. It's up to Joshua_.”

_It isn’t up to_ me _; it’s up to_ her, Joshua thought, his head bowed in the gloom of the passage. Daniel thought Joshua was being too aggressive—Joshua thought that Daniel was not being proactive enough. God had given them a gentile to balance the scales.

        Joan had remained silent during Daniel’s tirade, and Joshua lifted his head again, straining to hear what she would say to him in return.

        “ _But Joshua’s come up with a reasonable solution_.” Joshua caught her voice, carried to him on the small breeze that seemed to constantly sigh through the tall stone walls of the Narrows. “ _Why not help him fight? We can put an end to all of this, right here and right now. If the Sorrows don’t learn to stand up for themselves, when will they? It won’t just be the White Legs. Even disregarding the Sorrows, the White Legs will just find some other group of travelers to prey on. You can’t possibly tell me that you’d be able to sleep at night with that innocent blood on your hands, innocent blood that_ you _could have prevented from being spilled_.”

        Joshua leaned his head against the canyon wall, smiling so broadly that the bandages on his scarred cheeks pulled taut. _Yes_. She saw the situation with the same brutal clarity that he did, just as he thought she might.

         He heard Daniel fluster as he continued to debate with Joan, but tuned the rest out. He had learned all that he needed to know: that Joan was more than capable of defending herself, but far more importantly; that the fire that burned within her was as righteous as the fire that burned within himself.

***

        “Alright, I’ll see what I can do about that healing powder,” Joan said to Daniel, spinning away from him.

        “Think about what I’ve told you,” he replied to her turned back. Joan cast one hand out dismissively.

_I’ll think about it_ , she thought, _but there really isn’t much room for thought here. This isn’t exactly the sort of situation that lends itself to compromise or saccharine conversations about feelings._

        Follows-Chalk stopped beside her and her own footsteps ground to a halt, her thoughts interrupted.

        “Well, here we part ways. I'm needed back at the Dead Horse’s camp—maybe I'll see you there sometime,” Follows-Chalk said, giving Joan a small wave. She balked.

        “What? You’re just going to leave me alone out here in the valley?” Joan asked incredulously, gesturing to the dark sky. “I was thinking that we could rest here for the night and then start again first thing in the mor—”

        “Sorry, Joan,” Follows-Chalk said, looking genuinely apologetic. “You will be fine, I have seen the way you defend yourself. Not even just defending yourself sometimes—I think perhaps the White Legs should be more afraid of _you_ than of Joshua.” He paused and let out an airy, nervous chuckle before continuing. “I really must go, even though it is getting late—Joshua was pretty clear: get you to Daniel, then come on home. You can take it up with him if you'd like.”

        Joan’s brows lowered, her lips pursing into a thin pale line as she watched Follows-Chalk disappear into the winding passage between the canyon walls.

        “Fine—I _will_ take it up with Joshua,” she said softly, taking off after him. It was true that she could look after herself in the valley, but she had enjoyed Follows-Chalk’s company, and didn’t relish the idea of traversing the park alone. Despite what Joshua said about having only as much power as the Dead Horses gave him, he was clearly the boss around these parts—she would speak to him, one _boss_ to another, and get what she wanted.

        She was just rounding the corner—thinking of how exactly she was going to give him a piece of her mind—when a tall figure stepped in front of her, obstructing her path. She let out a shrill noise of surprise as she looked up, the cool waters splashing around her ankles.

        “By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion,” Joshua Graham said gravely, looking down at her. The color had fled out of Joan’s face but she quickly composed herself; as if to make up for the abrupt absence of color, pinkness rose to the surface of her cheeks instead at how closely Joshua was standing in front of her. She took a small step backward from him and he continued speaking, as if he hadn’t nearly scared the daylights out of her.

        “Remember, O Lord, the children of Edom in the day of Jerusalem who said, ‘Raze it, raze it, even to the foundation’. O daughter of Babylon, who art to be destroyed. Happy shall he be, that rewardeth thee as thou hast served us. Happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones.

        “I didn’t mean to surprise you,” he finished, resting his hands on his hips, his charred thumbs catching his belt loops. “Do you know what it means?”

        He finally ceased speaking as he stared at Joan, his pale blue eyes sharply lit up with reflections from the stream they were standing in. Joan stared back at him for a beat. He was obviously quoting something from his holy book, and it wasn’t difficult to grasp what he was proposing.

        “You want to kill the White Legs. All of them,” she said. “You don’t want to leave Zion.”

        “No, I don’t,” Joshua replied. “In the best of all possible worlds, they would just leave us in peace. But they won’t, and I’m not so delusional as to fool myself otherwise. This is a labor of necessity; I don't enjoy killing, but when done righteously, it's just a chore, like any other.”

        Joan ran her forefinger across the edge of her Pipboy, the minute dents and scrapes familiar under the pad of her fingertip. Daniel had indeed predicted that Joshua would want to wage war against the White Legs—but what was wrong with that? That was the same thing she was doing in the Mojave. The White Legs were practically an extension of the Legion, after all—the entire reason they were even in Zion was because their leader, Salt-Upon-Wounds, was trying to appeal to Caesar so that they could be absorbed into his Legion.

        Joan’s expression hardened. Daniel meant well, and she was sure that he was a perfectly capable doctor and missionary, but he had no idea what he was talking about. She doubted he had ever laid eyes on the atrocities of the Legion or their ilk. There was no reasoning with savage animals; the only solution was to put them down, before they could harm more innocents.

        And enough innocents had died, she thought, her lips narrowing into a furious white line on her face. Even if the White Legs had no ties to Caesar’s Legion, they still deserved to reap what they had sown at New Canaan; bitterly she thought back to the friends she had lost at the Followers Outpost, only a few weeks ago. She knew exactly how Joshua felt. Every day she was burdened with the knowledge that _she_ had brought the Brotherhood of Steel to them, in her attempt to help Veronica break free of them. Veronica had been worth so much more than skulking about fetching food and supplies for the Brotherhood; Joan believed she would have been a wonderful asset to the Followers of the Apocalypse, considering her vast technical knowledge and fearless attitude. That she was capable of defending herself—as well as others—was a bonus.

        When she lay in bed at night, all she could see was the blood slicking the floor of the Outpost, the faces of her companions and fellow members wrought with terror and pain. Despite the presence of mercenaries, they hadn’t even been able to draw their weapons to defend themselves. Slaughtered in cold blood, before they could even try to run. Just as the New Canaanites had been.

        Joan’s blood ran as hot as a furnace; she demanded justice, for all the innocent lives that had been lost at the hands of people who would take advantage of those that couldn’t protect themselves. The Legion. The Brotherhood of Steel. The White Legs. An eye for an eye, she thought contemptuously: if Daniel had witnessed even a sliver of what she and Joshua had, then there would be no question about what the right thing to do was. If she and Joshua were willing and capable of defending themselves and others, who the hell was Daniel to deny them?

        She placed her hands on her own hips, looking back up at Joshua.

        “You'll get no argument from me. These White Legs are human garbage,” she said, her voice low. Joshua immediately lifted his hands, some of the fiery edge melting away from his own expression.

        “They’re still God’s children,” he gently reprimanded her; Joan quickly cast her eyes away, flushing pink once more.

        “Sorry, you’re right. Go on,” she said. Joshua nodded at her before continuing.

        “It would be hypocritical of me to say that I don’t understand your righteous anger in this matter, but we would do well to remember the path of Christ. There may still be time to save Zion from the White Legs, to keep God's children here in this living temple, but Daniel does not yet see things the way we do. He is the John to our Matthew and Mark. When you have a moment, speak with him. Perhaps you can more effectively persuade him to see things as we do, better than I was able to do alone,” he suggested.

        Joan absentmindedly ran her forefinger against the seam of her skirt, worrying at it.

        “I already did but… well, I’ll try again. He asked me to run a few errands for him in the valley,” Joan said. “Maybe he’ll be more open-minded when he sees that I have the best interests of the Sorrows in my heart. That we _both_ do.”

        “We do,” Joshua affirmed, nodding at her once again. There was a slight lull in the conversation and color began to creep up Joan’s throat again. Since she had first met Joshua, she had been burning with questions about him; he had deflected her once, telling her to run along and fetch the supplies that Daniel would need if he and the Sorrows did decide to evacuate the park.

        She had finished that task now.

        Joshua must have sensed this; he wandered a few steps away from her to lean against the wall of the canyon, folding his arms across his SLCPD vest and making himself comfortable.

        “You want to know about me.” It wasn’t a question, but an invitation. Joan approached him, standing in the ankle deep water, her feet growing cold.

        “If you don’t mind.”

        “Curiosity is only natural.”

        Joan looked at the scarred tips of Joshua’s fingers. The flesh was mottled black and red, lending to his hands a strange pulsating quality, as if they were restless and alive, even though they were only pressed casually against his sleeves.

        “Are you in much pain?” she asked softly. Joshua looked away from her, out over the moonlit waters of the stream.

        “… It never stops burning. My skin. Every day, I have to unwind the bandages and replace them with fresh ones,” he replied, his voice low. “Exposing my body to the air is like living through it again—but it's better to be clean than comfortable.”

        Joan had pulled her hands behind her back, twisting at the flesh on the tips of her fingers. She wondered what it felt like to be burned. She did not ask that; instead, she asked him if there was anything that she could do to help him.

        “You are kind to offer, but no, there's nothing you can do,” Joshua replied, looking back at Joan. It was her turn to look away again. She wasn’t sure what she could have done for him anyway—she was capable of patching up minor injuries, but she typically relied on Arcade for all her actual medical emergencies. She wouldn’t even know where to begin to help someone with horrific burns devouring the majority of their body. She switched subjects instead, asking Joshua his opinion about Robert House, and discussing the future of the NCR and the Mojave. They spoke late into the night, and it was nearing dawn when Joan finally collapsed into her sleeping bag, fatigued and glowing with warm satisfaction.

***

        A few days passed. Joan had forgotten entirely about asking Joshua about Follows-Chalk—and she didn’t get a chance to see him again after the night they had spent talking—so she settled for traveling the valley with Waking Cloud. Though she wasn’t as endearingly naïve and talkative as Follows-Chalk, Joan still found herself enjoying the other woman’s company. Like Joan, Waking Cloud favored avoiding encounters when possible, and was happy to stand back and let Joan dispatch White Legs from afar.

        Some tension had arisen, however—Daniel had confided in Joan that Waking Cloud’s husband had not survived in the wilderness. Joan had quickly agreed with Daniel that she would likely lose focus if she was made aware of that, but Joan had never been a particularly good liar; she found herself skirting the subject any time Waking Cloud brought up her family. Despite that, they worked well together, and managed to wrap up the tasks that Daniel had set for Joan within just a few fast-paced days.

        As Joan approached the Narrows—alone now, Waking Cloud having left earlier to help with Daniel’s preparations—the sun dangled heavily in the sky, suspended just above the cliffs lining the valley and casting bold indigo shadows into the crevices of the park. When Joan entered the Sorrow’s camp, she was taken aback with surprise.

        The entire camp was active and busy; everyone was thrusting their belongings into sacks and packing up the contents of their lean-tos. When Joan finally found Daniel, he was shoveling books into a large pack.

        “Waking Cloud told me that you were finished,” he said distractedly, continuing to work as he spoke.

        “I haven’t told you what I thought we should do yet,” Joan said. Though given what she was about to tell him, she was rather glad that he seemed to be prepared for it, even if he didn’t know what was coming.

        “Whatever you and Joshua do,” Daniel began, his voice brittle, “the Sorrows and I have to evacuate. So tell me now—what have you decided?”

        Joan matched his cool tone, squaring herself as she looked up at him.

        “I think you know the answer to that. Joshua is right; we need to fight the White Legs, right here and right now. It’s the only solution.”

        Daniel’s hands halted over his pack and he lowered his head, his eyes squeezing shut as he sighed.

        “No… Why? _Why_? Haven't you seen enough of what's going on here to see that the Sorrows don't need to butcher the White Legs for a piece of land? What Joshua wants is more than an attack—he wants a _slaughter_. And he needs more than you and the Dead Horses to do it.” Daniel paused and turned to Joan, his expression sharp with bitter disappointment. Joan continued to meet his eyes with determination, her hands curling into fists against the sides of her thighs.

        “The Sorrows can't be pushed into this. You and Joshua don't have the right to force them into it,” Daniel said. “I don’t condone this, but I can see that I can’t stop you— _either_ of you. Do what you will; the Sorrows and I won’t have any part of it.”

        Daniel turned away from her and resumed packing his belongings, his movements stiff and jerky.

        Joan was on the verge of derisively snapping back at Daniel when she abruptly turned and strode away. It wasn’t worth the effort. His mind had been made up to leave.

_You barely deserve to live in this paradise_ , she thought, her face wrought with severity. _You’re not even willing to stay here and defend it. Fine. Go and run and hide—Joshua and_ I _will save Zion_.

        With that, she set out, heading for the mouth of the Narrows to let Joshua know what had happened and that they needed to prepare.

***

        The sun had passed behind the enormous crops of rock that embraced the park when Joan met Joshua. He was standing by the water’s edge, just outside the Narrows, as if he had been waiting for her. Her heart skipped for a moment before giving an extra beat to make up the difference. She had barely walked up to him when he turned and greeted her.

        “Thank you for this. I know Daniel doesn't approve, but destroying the White Legs is the only way to ensure the Sorrows can remain in Zion.”

        She nodded at him and he continued, growing animated as he spoke.

        “You and I will lead a group of Dead Horse warriors and Sorrows hunters into Three Mary’s from this position. Our objective is to find the White Leg’s leader, Salt-Upon-Wounds, and prevent him from fleeing.”

        Joan faltered, her hand darting to her tie and giving it a sharp tug.

        “Wait, we’re doing this _now_?” she asked, her voice unnaturally high. She glanced up to the sky above. Stars had just begun to bloom against the deep blue wash suspended above them. Joshua narrowed his eyes at her.

        “Of course we’re doing it _now_ ,” he said, his voice taking on a much harder edge than he’d used with her previously. “Why would we wait?”

        “I’ve been up since the crack of dawn—I’m just about run ragged,” Joan replied, thrusting her hands out as she tried to appeal to Joshua. “I’m not usually my sharpest at night as it is, and I’ve been killing myself for Daniel for the past three days. I think it would be better to wait and prepare, just for a day or—”

        Joshua twisted to face her fully before looking down on her, his pale eyes icy against the dull red scarring that surrounded them.

        “I don’t think so. We’re doing this _tonight_ ,” he said sharply. He seemed to expand, standing much taller than Joan, and she found herself shrinking beneath him, some of the color fleeing out of her face.

        He took a breath and seemed to deflate somewhat, his hands relaxing at his sides as he continued speaking.

        “It’s only logical—tonight is the night of the new moon. The White Legs don’t know that we’re attacking, but even they can surely sense the storm that’s been brewing. I want to utilize every advantage that we can.”

        Joan glanced up. There was indeed an empty shadow in the ocean of stars above, and the valley was brimming with darkness, unpolluted with light and noise from any nearby cities or settlements. She lifted her hand to her tie again. She really was quite tired—and completely and utterly unprepared—but Joshua had an irrefutable point. The White Legs wouldn’t suspect an attack right now at all. And Daniel and the Sorrows were already gathering their things and exiting Zion. She bit her lip before finally looking up at Joshua and jerking her chin down in a resolute nod.

        “Alright.”

        “ _Good_ ,” Joshua replied, darkly satisfied. “Show no quarter to the White Legs we come across—make no mistake about why we are here. This is an extermination.”

        Joan nodded again, and Joshua favored her with a smile, though she could only tell that it was by the way the faint wrinkles around his eyes bunched up. The corners of her lips twitched upward in return before she turned away, checking her rifle. Fortunately she had given it a decent field stripping this morning, before she and Waking Cloud had set about their day. Daniel had given them some explosives—where on earth he’d even gotten them from was beyond Joan—and tasked them with clearing out a nest of Yao Guai. It had been a tense afternoon, the two of them stalking silently and avoiding confrontation with the hideous beasts; fortunately it meant that Joan’s rifle hadn’t seen any action all day, so she was at least prepared on that front.

        She double checked to make sure her rifle was loaded before slinging it back over her shoulder. Joshua had already begun to stride across the stream and she took off after him, hiking her skirt up so that it wouldn’t get wet, watching him with wary nervousness.

        Joshua Graham’s demeanor had abruptly switched from placid holy man to ruthless warlord; for a fraction of a second she saw him as she imagined he looked before he had been burned: slightly taller, the flesh on his arms pale and unbandaged, his head crowned with dark hair that was kept as meticulously as his firearms. She had no idea what he had looked like five years ago—or if she had heard of it then, she certainly didn’t remember it now—but she felt somehow that she wasn’t off the mark. For a moment all she could see was the Malpais Legate.

        She pushed the thought out of her mind, disgusted with herself. That wasn’t who Joshua was anymore. No one who spoke to her at such lengths about God, serving their fellow man, and showing compassion could have ever served Caesar’s Legion. It was as if the Malpais Legate had been another man entirely, and that suited her just fine.

        She would face the White Legs with Joshua Graham, and together they would restore peace and safety to Zion; of that, she had complete and utter faith.


	8. How High

Chapter 8: How High

_Divisive sounds, these ups and downs; the trip is where you take it_

_Put a cap in General Gobbledigook._

Harsh sunlight beat down on Joan’s face as her dreams of the past faded away into nothingness, evaporating in her mind like a shallow puddle left to the mercy of the scorching sun after an afternoon shower.

She curled tighter into her sleeping bag, burrowing against the itchy tightness around her eyes before cracking one of them open and glancing around.

The Dead Horse’s Camp was fully awake and active, the men running around the cove and sparring with each other. Female Sorrows were crossing in and out of the Eastern Virgin with small children in tow as they carried baskets of clothing to be washed. She fumbled beside herself until she found her glasses, shoving them on before checking her Pipboy.

Her eyebrows jumped up—it was nearly noon. She had slept for more than twelve straight hours. Scrambling to sit up, she looked across the camp again—she spotted Joshua making his way into the Angel Cave, as he always did during the hottest part of the day.

Despite the delicate peace that had existed between them since the day she had confronted him and he had cleaned her finger for her again, she could tell that he was growing weary with her presence; her finger was more than healed now, enough that he didn’t bother binding it anymore, and had harshly snapped at her to deal with it when she told him it hurt to expose it to the air. She had bit her tongue then, keeping any further complaints to herself.

Something wasn’t right though, she thought as she looked down at her finger. Thick scars had formed, identical to the ones that covered nearly all of Joshua’s body, richly black and red. Though she had slept later today than she perhaps ever had in her short life, it was merely the apex of a trend she had noticed. During the past month it had become a struggle to wake up at her usual time, just as the sun was beginning to crest over the towering red rocks that circled the valley. She had always been an early riser, even from the first day she had woken up in Doc Mitchell’s house.

She frowned at her scarred finger. It couldn’t possibly be infected, could it? She recalled the pain she had suffered before Joshua debrided the wound. It had hurt more than she thought a single finger possibly could. There was a slight pain there now, but nothing that seemed to be out of the ordinary, not that she had much to compare it to. Still, he had warned her that infection was a very real possibility, even months after healing.

Her stomach rumbled and she pushed the thought out of her head as she pressed her palm to her knee, pulling herself up to her feet. A wave of dizziness  abruptly overcame her and she squeezed her eyes shut and pressed the tips of her fingers to her forehead, causing her to wobble on her heels for a moment; she hadn’t eaten much recently—even less than she usually ate—and she had woken up dizzy and queasy more often than not during the past week or two. Perhaps there would be leftovers from breakfast in the Angel Cave, she thought. From the edge of the water she could catch a faint whiff of seared meat and vegetables—maybe fortune was on her side and they had begun lunch already.

As soon as she entered the cave her stomach violently twisted, causing her to bend over as the muscles in her thighs and abdomen jerked. Thickened saliva immediately welled up in her mouth and she dashed back out, to the raised eyebrows of the female Sorrows that had been milling about inside. Joan charged to the edge of the water and fell to her knees, heaving and retching.

The bout lasted for several torturous minutes before finally subsiding. After a few more churning moments of uncertainty, she swiped at her mouth with a trembling hand. She had managed to keep whatever was in her stomach down, if just barely. Sitting back on her haunches, she looked at her hand. The tangle of scar tissue ran the entire length of the inside of her forefinger, from palm to tip. It looked no different than the tips of Joshua’s fingers; certainly it seemed innocent enough, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong with it. She had been so lethargic and tired lately. And now, just walking into the Angel Cave and smelling the beginnings of lunch had been enough to send her running for the edge of the water.

She had to tell Joshua about this.

She pulled herself to her feet and dusted the sand off her suit before cautiously entering the Angel Cave once again. Her stomach jumped and she covered her mouth and nose tightly with her palm, her dress shoes tapping rapidly against the rough stone floor. The Sorrows watched her as she nervously skirted past them.

Joshua Graham was seated at his work table, the oil lamp burning bright to illuminate the pistol that he was working on. He seemed to be utterly engrossed in his work: he didn’t glance up until Joan was standing directly in front of him.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, returning his focus to the gun in his hands. The corners of her lips tugged downward at the coolness of his reception.

For a moment Joan debated just leaving; she could be back in the Mojave in a couple weeks, in the care of the Followers of the Apocalypse. They would know how to treat an infection, and would certainly welcome her back much more warmly than Joshua was treating her now. But that would mean having to explain to Julie Farkas and Arcade what had happened—she burned to even consider having to explain what Joshua had done to her. No, she decided; an infection was too serious to put off any longer. Joshua would know what to do, this was the entire reason he had permitted her to stay in Zion as long as she had.

She swallowed, forcing back the nausea that continued to roll in her stomach, before speaking again.

“I think something is wrong.”

She blushed at how young and frightened she sounded—Joshua’s hands stilled and he looked up, granting her his full attention now.

“What is it?” he asked. Joan held out her hand to him, her forefinger extended. He looked down at it before looking back up at her.

“I haven’t been feeling well lately, and my finger still hurts. I think something is wrong with it,” Joan explained, fighting the urge to bounce back and forth on her heels. Joshua had taken to concealing himself in the Angel Cave during most days, or wandering out into the valley alone; they hadn’t spoken this directly in several days.

Joshua took her hand and inspected it, drawing it close to the lamp to better illuminate it; Joan flinched at the heat radiating from the small, hungry fire within the chimney. He ignored her and examined her entire hand, from the rest of her fingers to her palm, even casting a cursory glance at the tops of her knuckles. Her face reddened to have his hand around her own again, the cazadors in her stomach stirring from their slumber once more.

“There’s nothing wrong with your finger,” he said bluntly as he looked up at her again. He paused before narrowing his eyes and continuing.

“You need to go back to the Mojave, Joan. Don’t pretend to take ill and connive to stay in Zion longer than necessary. You’ve been here as an uninvited guest for nearly two months now—you would do well not to overstay your already generous welcome.”

Joan snatched her hand away from him and stepped back, her face bright in the gloom of the cave.

“I—I’m not! I mean it, I haven’t been feeling well—”

Her voice died away; Joshua’s expression had hardened, and he braced his hands on the table, pulling himself to his feet and towering over her.

“This isn’t up for discussion. You’ve stayed here long enough, and there is _nothing_ wrong with you, or your finger. Pack your things this evening—if I so much as see a hair on your head come tomorrow afternoon, I’ll drag you out of this park myself,” Joshua threatened, leaning over her.

Joan shrank, her face paling. She opened her mouth to argue with him but she could see the terrible finality in his face—she had pushed her luck to the limit. The corners of her eyes burned and she swallowed past the lump that had developed in her throat before stepping down from the ledge.

“… Okay.”

It had been a tremendous effort to even utter that much. Joshua continued to glower at her until she turned and exited the chamber, her face growing hot once more.

Her stomach dropped as she exited the cave. This is it, she thought morosely, looking out over the glimmering waters of the Eastern Virgin. He hadn’t warmed to her at all over the past two months—at this point it seemed unlikely that she’d ever be welcome in Zion again. Her presence hadn’t been enough to ignite the spark between them.

The corners of her lips drooped further as she looked down at her finger. This was all that she would ever have to remind her of him. Of what they had shared. She bit her lip and blinked back tears before doing as Joshua ordered.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze. Joan didn’t have many belongings with her, and everything was gathered and assembled neatly in her pack by the time night had fallen. Joshua had reverted to totally ignoring her: he sat on the opposite end of the picnic table at dinner, his eyes skipping over her as he made conversation with the tribals around him. Usually he spoke in English as much as he could, but this evening he spoke almost exclusively in Res; Joan sat alone and excluded at the far end of the table, listlessly pushing around the food in her bowl. Only Waking Cloud had taken pity on her, asking her if she was enjoying her meal, and what she planned to do when she returned to the civilized lands. At least the nausea had finally subsided.

After supper, Joan retreated to the edge of the inlet, staring up at the night sky. Just above the canyon walls was a lingering hint of red, bleeding into the dusky blue night. Footsteps approached her and she turned.

Passing Dawn was walking up to Joan, a slight waddle in her gait. Her stomach was much larger than it had been when they first met, and her hands were cupped around it. Awkwardly she lowered herself to the sand, spreading her swollen ankles out and dipping them into the cool water.

“Waking Cloud told me that you are leaving tomorrow,” she said. Joan turned a flustered red, looking away from the other woman.

“Yeah.”

“Is Joshua making you leave?” she asked.

Joan twisted her head further, narrowing her eyes in humiliation. She had grown to rather like Passing Dawn in the time she had spent here, but her pointedly direct question stung her.

“What do you think?” she snapped morosely, glaring at the canyon wall. Passing Dawn chuckled.

“He is a severe kind of man, isn’t he? Not as nice as he could be,” she mused. Joan turned her face just enough to look at her out of the corner of her eyes. Passing Dawn was the only tribal that didn’t seem to have some kind of heroic infatuation with Joshua.

“He does usually have a good idea of what is best, though,” Passing Dawn continued. Joan looked away again. “His methods are harsh, but he gets results. It is why we Dead Horses look up to him so much. He made a real difference in our lives.”

Joan had nearly forgotten that Passing Dawn was one of the few female Dead Horses of the valley—she spent so much time around the Sorrows that Joan had unconsciously lumped her in with them.

“Yeah,” Joan murmured again. She looked down at her finger. The scars were black in the evening gloom. Passing Dawn looked down at her hand as well.

“It looks like he left a mark on your life too.”

Joan tucked her finger into her fist, ignoring the pain around the edges of the scar. Tears welled up behind her glasses again, and she took a shuddery breath. To her immense relief, Passing Dawn didn’t move to console her, or pat her shoulder—she sat silently beside Joan until she got her emotions under control again. After a few minutes Joan pushed her glasses up and swiped at her eyes. This seemed to be enough for Passing Dawn—she reached out and gently cuffed Joan’s shoulder before hefting herself to her feet again.

“Don’t be sad, Joan. Your time in Zion might be over, but you carry a permanent reminder of your trials with you. You will learn much from this,” Passing Dawn said with a smile. Joan looked up at her before returning the smile with shaky resolve.

“If you say so,” she replied, only a faint croak betraying her.

“I must go—Waking Cloud and I are heading back to the Narrows in a few minutes,” Passing Dawn said before heading back to the fire in the center of the camp. Joan waved at her as she departed, and the brief light that had flickered inside of her died back down as she realized she would have another person in Zion to miss when she returned to New Vegas.

Joan sat alone for a while longer before returning to the furthest edge of the cove to roll her sleeping bag out. Fortunately it was warmer, but she missed the heat of the fire as she stared longingly at the spot that used to be her own. Standing beside that spot was Joshua Graham, preparing for bed as well. She watched him shrug out of his SLCPD vest and fold it neatly before tucking it beside his lean-to. Next he kicked off his shoes. He twisted and she immediately looked away; she knew he had caught her staring at him.

After a tense moment she glanced back—he was climbing into his lean-to, dressed down to naught but his jeans and undershirt. She tore her eyes away and burrowed into her sleeping bag, her eyes wet.


	9. Black Roses

Chapter 9: Black Roses

_You led us like lambs on our way to the slaughter_

        The camp was bathed in pre-dawn darkness, the first shades of pink and purple kissing the sky above as Joan’s Pipboy roared to life, beeping and vibrating. She jerked out of sleep, her skin prickling with alarm as she slapped at her Pipboy, finally managing to shut it off—she didn’t think she had ever been forced to use to alarm function before. She was nearly gasping, her hair tangled and unruly from sleep.

        Abruptly she leaned forward and vomited.

        She hadn’t been able to control herself at all; the front of her undergarments and sleeping bag were coated within moments, slimy and acidic. She choked and cried out, shrill and frantic, her back arching uncomfortably as the waves kept coming in hot, sour rushes; tears streamed down her cheeks from the force of it.

        Around her the camp jolted to life from her cries of distress; Joshua had been the first to react, bolting out of his lean-to and seizing his pistol, his eyes vigilantly scanning darkness for the source of the disruption.

        Joan was retching and wiping at her face and throat, humiliated and sick to her stomach. The worst of the jolts seemed to have stopped, fortunately, but she felt as though they might start over anew if she dared to move even a muscle.

        “Come here.”

        She glanced up—Joshua was kneeling beside her, his eyes wide with concern. She tried to jerk away from him before he gathered her up in his arms, carrying her away from the waters and striding toward the Angel Cave. Her face turned even whiter than it already was.

        “No, no…” she murmured raggedly, risking the turmoil in her stomach to shove against his chest. “I’m disgusting, put me down.” Her voice came out in a thick slur and Joshua hastened his pace, looking down at her with his brows in a worried arc. Joan immediately averted her eyes, swiping at her mouth and trying to cover herself.

        “So you weren’t lying. You aren’t well,” he said.

        “ _I fucking told you_ ,” she groaned, fortified that he finally seemed to accept that she had been honest the day before. They had passed through the cave and entered his personal chamber before he set her down gently, turning and fetching a bottle of purified water as soon as she was on the ground. He opened it and passed it to her and she accepted it gratefully, trying to wash away some of the chalky grit from her teeth.

        “Stay here and don’t move. I’m going to the Narrows to get Waking Cloud—I’ll be back in an hour or two. Hopefully she’ll already be on her way here,” Joshua said, unbuttoning his woven shirt and trading it for a new one that wasn’t stained with vomit. He took a moment to lay out the Yao Guai fur on the floor before lifting her again and placing her delicately on top of it.

        “God watch over you—I’ll be back soon,” Joshua said. He stared at her for a beat as she curled over onto her side, clenching her stomach. It was churning uncomfortably again. He strode out of the cave, and she could hear his bandaged feet slapping through the corridor until the sounds eventually faded.

        Joan glanced around the cave, unhappy to be here again. She was far too bitterly reminded of lying in this exact spot two months ago, heartbroken and miserable. In an attempt to distract herself, she brought her Pipboy up to her face before she saw that the screen was too blurry to easily read; her glasses were still lying beside her sleeping bag, where she had placed them the night before. She cursed under her breath and closed her eyes instead, willing her stomach to settle.

        In time, she dozed off, falling in and out of restless bouts of sleep until Joshua returned. He was fully dressed again, his snakeskin shoes sharp against the stone floor. He knelt and gently shook Joan’s shoulder until she bolted awake again, her eyes wide.

        “Here,” he said. He extended his palm toward her and Joan reached out for it—her fingers brushed the metal frame of her glasses and her cheeks grew pink.

        “Thank you,” she said, pushing her glasses onto her face. Joshua came into sharper focus. Waking Cloud was standing behind him, staring down at her.

        “You just left her like this? She is filthy!” Waking Cloud reprimanded him. Joan caught the flash of a scowl on his face before he turned to face her.

        “It’s clear she’s in need of medical attention. If you didn’t insist on staying in the Narrows, this wouldn’t have been a problem,” he snapped.

        Waking Cloud ignored him, instead dropping to her knees beside Joan.

        “Bring me more water and some rags, so I can clean this poor girl up,” Waking Cloud ordered. Joshua’s eyebrows shot up, but after a moment he did as he was told; he returned to her side a minute later, several bottles of water in hand, as well as a number of clean squares of cloth.

        “Bring me something for her to wear as well,” Waking Cloud continued, dousing the rags in water and scrubbing at Joan, who sat stiffly as she worked. Joshua faltered.

        “… My clothes are in my pack. Outside,” Joan said. Watching Waking Cloud order Joshua Graham around was surreal; the continued dizziness in her skull made her wonder if she was having some sort of fever dream as Joshua obediently spun around and exited the cave. Within minutes he returned, her entire pack slung over his shoulder. He set it beside Joan and began to root around inside it. She swatted his hand away.

        “Hey—I can do that myself,” she snapped. Joshua ignored her, his hands thrust deep into her bag before withdrawing her neatly folded suit. By now Waking Cloud had cleansed her of the worst of the mess; Joan snatched her clothes away from Joshua and immediately tugged off her soured garments before casting them aside. Joshua twisted his head, looking politely away as she changed into her suit, leaving her jacket carelessly open, her tie still packed away in her bag. Her face was red, but she was too disgusted with the stench wafting off of her undergarments to care.

        “Much better. Now tell me, what is wrong? How long have you been feeling unwell?” Waking Cloud asked, sitting cross-legged on the floor across from Joan. Joshua was leaning against the wall of the cave, his arms folded across his chest.

        “I’ve been sick, I guess,” Joan began as Waking Cloud leaned forward, tilting Joan’s chin up and inspecting face. She did her best to ignore the back of Waking Cloud’s hand brushing her hair out of the way before resting it against her forehead.

        “I’ve been really tired, and I’ve been sick to my stomach sometimes when I wake up, or smell food… though never this bad,” she continued as Waking Cloud’s hands traveled further down her body, scrutinizing her shoulders and hands.

        “How on earth did _this_ happen...?” Waking Cloud murmured, staring at her charred finger. Joan fought the urge to yank her hand away.

        “It was a mistake,” Joan muttered—she glanced at Joshua, whose head was fully turned away from them, staring pointedly at the mouth of the chamber. Waking Cloud made a noise of concern before moving on, placing her fingers against Joan’s throat to time her pulse.

        “So… tiredness, sickness, anything else?”

        “Um… I guess not. I’ve never really been sick before. I don’t know what’s wrong. Is it an infection, maybe?” Joan proposed, looking at Waking Cloud again.

        Waking Cloud was watching her carefully— her eyes darted to Joshua before returning to Joan.

        “How old are you?”

        “Twenty-two,” Joan replied promptly. She wasn’t sure how relevant that information was, but she trusted that Waking Cloud knew more in these matters than she did. Waking Cloud seemed to relax a little bit.

        “I see. And when was the last time you had the… ah, _ooljéé dił_?”

        Joshua’s head abruptly snapped back around to face them.

        “The what?” Joan asked, arching her eyebrow quizzically.

        “You know, your…” Waking Cloud halted, trying to find the right term in English before finally lowering her hands to her navel and cupping them in a circle. “Your moon time? Once a month?”

        Bright color shot into Joan’s throat and face, rising all the way up to her ears.

        “I—I don’t know!” she snapped. She twisted away, unable to look at Joshua, even in the periphery of her vision. “It’s… it’s been a while? I don’t really keep track… Why the fuck are you even asking that?”

        Joan crossed her arms, her shoulders hunched, her face hot as the walls of the cave seemed to close in around the three of them. Waking Cloud shifted to look at Joshua before leaning around to put herself into Joan’s line of sight once again. She gave Joan a warm smile.

        “I know many things—I am midwife to the Sorrows after all. I have seen many young women in your condition.”

        Ice shot into Joan’s chest and stomach as the color immediately drained from her face, leaving even her lips paper white. A thin noise spilled from her throat as her eyes fell downward, landing on her abdomen.

        “That… that’s not right.” The words came out in a dazed whisper through the tightness of her throat.

        It was only one time. It couldn’t possibly be true. Waking Cloud was wrong. Joan’s hands and arms had grown so cold that they hardly seemed to be attached to her. She shoved her palms awkwardly against the floor to stand up, her knees trembling. She was breathing fast; it felt as though she had just run a hundred miles.

        “I need to go. Back to the Mojave,” she began jerkily, hauling her pack onto her shoulder. She could barely feel the weight of it. “I need to go back home now. It’s been a nice stay, but I need to get going—”

        Joshua’s hand shot out, seizing her upper arm with enough force that she was nearly pulled off balance. She tried to yank it away from him but he held her fast, spinning her around to face him. Her breath caught in her throat—his eyes were bright, almost seeming to spark in the darkness.

        “No. You aren’t going anywhere, not yet.” His twisted his head to face Waking Cloud again, his reddened fingertips still digging into Joan’s arm.

        “Are you certain?” Joshua asked. Waking Cloud was staring at him with her eyebrows arched.

        “I obviously cannot say for _certain_ , Joshua, but it would seem so. There are not so many things to afflict an otherwise healthy young woman in such a way.”

        “Go back to your duties, then,” Joshua ordered. There was no room for rebuttal in his tone; Waking Cloud immediately stood up and walked past them. She cast a comforting glance at Joan as she passed by, a faint smile on her face. Joan wrenched her arm to follow after her but Joshua’s fingertips steeled, hard enough that Joan gritted her teeth and hissed. His grip immediately softened, though he still held her firmly in place.

        “Not you.”

        Slowly he turned her to face him again.

        “Is this true?” he asked.

        Joan stared at him, her mouth agape.

        “How the hell am I supposed to know? I—I thought I had an infection, or a cold or something. Not… _not_ —” she cut herself off, unable to bring herself to say what came next. She tried again to pry her arm away from him, but he held her in place.

        “I need to go back to the Mojave. You said so yourself. I want to go _home_ ,” she continued. Her chin crinkled at the crack in her voice, but she pushed on. “If… if this is true. If I am—I need to get rid of this. The Followers will know what to do about—”

        The tips of Joshua’s fingertips buried into Joan’s arm with enough force that she squealed.

        “ _How dare you_ —I can’t believe you would even consider such a thing. _No_ ,” Joshua growled, his voice thick with disgust. He towered over her, his eyes glittering in the lamplight. Joan blinked back tears of pain.

        “ _If_ you are with child,” Joshua began, “then your place is here. You are not to travel, or put yourself in unnecessary danger. You are _certainly_ not to do anything that would bring harm to the life growing within you. A sin above nearly all. I have overlooked many sins: your use of chems, the filth you peddle in New Vegas. But this is a line that can’t be crossed. Not so long as _I_ have anything to say about it.”

        Joan’s chest rose and fell like a piston, and she was on the verge of hyperventilation. She didn’t want this. She couldn’t do this. She jerked her eyes back down to her belly again. She imagined it bloated and round and a wave of sickened fury washed over her.

        Abruptly she lashed out, smashing her fist against Joshua’s shoulder and desperately trying to wriggle out of his grip. He was taken aback at first before his fingers hardened again; Joan was oblivious to the pain now, digging her heels into the stone floor of the cave and thrashing, striking at every part of him that she could reach.

        “I’m not doing this—you can’t fucking make me!” she shrieked, flooded with terror and rage. He had done this to her. She had never asked for this.

        “Calm down,” he snapped, holding her at arm’s length and craning his head back just in time for her short fingernails to narrowly miss his face. His words served to fuel the blind fury coursing through her; she kicked at him instead, catching his shin with the sharp toe of her dress shoe. Joshua was rapidly losing patience.

        “ _Enough_!” He drew his hand back as if to strike her before halting himself as he stared down at her. Joan glared at him, her eyes red and wild.

        “Fucking do it!” she challenged. She prayed that he would hit her, that he would lose control and strike her with enough force that this would all be over with. Joshua glanced at his hand and then back at her, his expression swollen with rage before sharply tempering. He lowered his hand and instead used it to restrain her other arm.

        “Let me go, you son of a bitch!” Joan was shrieking and hissing again as Joshua steered her toward one of the metal shelves lining the room. He ignored her completely as she kicked and scraped against him, spouting epithets and threats.

        He was forced to release one of her arms as he reached down and rooted through one of the crates on the bottom shelf. Joan attacked him with renewed fury but he ignored that as well, as if she were no more of a bother than a gnat buzzing around him. Within moments he found what he had been searching for—Joan gasped as he stood straight again.

        In his hand was a pair of handcuffs, reflecting harsh glints of lamplight. Joan shouted and tried to dash away from him again but he had spun her around with brutal efficiency, yanking her arms behind her back. Her shoulder blades pinched together painfully as he dragged her hands together; in a practiced motion, he swung the cuffs over her wrists in succession, locking and tightening them securely enough  that she would be unable to slip out of them, even as small as her hands were. Her shoulders ached as she struggled against him.

        “No! Fuck— _fuck_ , don’t do this, let me go, _please_ ,” Joan begged as he dragged her across the cavern to his work table. He shoved her onto the cinderblock seat that he had arranged for her on the first night of her visit—a lifetime ago now, it seemed. She stared hatefully at him as he left her side to return to the shelves, bending down to search through another box.

        “You can’t fucking do this,” she snarled, trying in vain to jerk her wrists apart. She could feel her Pipboy scraping against her back and an idea seized her—she laughed bitterly at him as she climbed to her feet, scrambling off the ledge his table sat on.

        “I’ll radio Yes Man and he’ll come and get me—you don’t even know the hell that’s coming for you, you are _fucked_! I have an army! You’ll regret ever laying a goddamn hand on me, you fucking bastard! If you don’t let me go _right fucking now_ , your head is going to be on a _pike,_ you fucking—”

        She was cut off by Joshua approaching her again, quickly enough that she couldn’t flee from him. In his hand was another set of cuffs. His expression was at first shocked and disgusted, but was soon replaced with cool professionalism as he secured one of the cuffs to the chain of her own restraints. He twisted her around so that her back was facing the ammunition workbench beside his ledge before dragging her to it and securing the other end of the cuffs to the bottom of the leg of the heavy table. Joan shrieked and thrashed—the table barely budged, despite her efforts. He tested the cuff and the chain until he was satisfied that she was secure.

        She gasped as his hands were suddenly upon her again, hot color blooming on her face in splotches.

        “What are you doing?” she demanded. His hands were patting down her shoulders and sides. She jerked as his hand pushed up her skirt before gliding down the interior of each thigh. Swiftly they pulled away; next he ran his hands down the outside of her hips. He shoved her skirt up again and plucked away the combat knife that was strapped to her thigh. Joan hissed. It only took him a few more moments to ascertain that there were no other weapons on her body—he had even jerked open her suit jacket, his blackened fingers raking past the bible he had gifted her.

        Joshua pulled away from her and she sagged against the workbench, her face red. A second later she jerked again—his hands were on her Pipboy, his scarred fingers prying at the latch. Her eyes shot open wide and she struggled against him with renewed fervor.

        “Wha— _no_. No, no, no! That’s mine, that’s been on my arm since the day I woke up—that’s MINE! You can’t fucking take that!” He voice was shrill and terrified.

        Joshua snorted at her.

        “You were eager enough to give this thing up before. You were so desperate to stay, it would seem that God has given you precisely what you wanted,” he replied coldly. Her Pipboy swung away from her arm and Joan shrieked loud and hoarse, a hard lump forming in her throat.

        “No— _no_!”

        “You’ll remain here until I determine whether or not you truly are with child. If you’re not, I’ll return everything of yours and you can be on your way. If you _are_ , well…”

        Joshua trailed off and stepped away from the reloading bench, her Pipboy in his bandaged hand. Turning to her pack, he snatched up her sniper rifle from where it was slung over the back of it, hefting it over his own shoulder. Finally, he strode across the room and secured her Pipboy on top of the same shelf that he’d placed her case of Med-X upon long ago. Joan sagged against the ammunitions bench and watched as Joshua exited through the tunnel that led to the camp below, hot tears streaming down her face. The last she saw of him was his shadow bobbing along the wall, before it too disappeared.


	10. Take Me Out

Chapter 10: Take Me Out

_I know I won't be leaving here with you_

        Joan collapsed to the floor, her chest bursting with barely restrained sobs. She sniffed loudly, trying to contain herself. Now was not the time to fall apart and collapse. She shook her head savagely, trying to clear it.

        She needed a plan.

        Sitting fully on the floor, she craned her head, looking over her shoulder as best as she could. Her handcuffs were thoroughly secured to the workbench, Joshua had seen well enough to that. She scraped her fingers against the floor of the cave. Solid rock. No way that she could possibly dig beneath the reloading bench and free herself. She bit her lip, focusing on thinking, her chest still shuddering painfully.

        “There’s got to be something,” she muttered to herself, looking around the cave. Joshua had produced the cuffs from one of the crates lining the room—surely there must be a key. Joan scrambled to her feet, hunching awkwardly as the cuffs didn’t allow her to stand fully straight. She threw herself forward and the table wobbled, sending a box of hand loaded ammunition tumbling to the ground. Joan stared at it for a moment before slamming forward again, ignoring the pain shooting up her arms and into her shoulders. Perhaps if she managed to toss everything off the table, it would be enough for her to drag it across the room.

        Joan spent the next half hour straining against the table, alternating between throwing her weight against it and lunging forward. By the end of it she was drenched with sweat and panting, her shoulders screaming with agony. Her labor hadn’t been entirely fruitless however—boxes of primer, casings, and gunpowder were scattered all over the ground around her. She allowed herself a moment to sit and relax, rolling her shoulders to try to alleviate the hot red pain that was emanating from them, tossing her head in an attempt to get her sweat slicked hair out of her face. She didn’t dare allow herself to sit too long though, lest Joshua come back to check on her.

        Her thighs were shaking as she dragged herself to her feet again, and she took a deep breath. _You can do this_. She was weak, but she wasn’t _that_ weak.

        Grunting, she threw herself forward as hard as she could—her efforts were rewarded with the table lurching barely an inch. Joan threw her head back and groaned.

        “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she hissed. There had to be a better way, a smarter way. She slumped back down again.

 _Think, Joan,_ think. _Stop being erratic and just_ think _. There’s a way out of this, you just haven’t given yourself time to think of it yet. You’re better than this, smarter than this. I took Vegas, I can figure out how to get out of a fucking pair of handcuffs._

        Her thigh was bouncing up and down anxiously, eyes cast to the ceiling, when it occurred to her—she gasped with triumph and began wriggling lower to the ground. She winced at the protest in her shoulders as she rolled herself around to lie flat on her back; the cuff twisted painfully against her wrists, but she would endure. She lay facing the workbench, the leg of the table between her thighs. Carefully, she maneuvered her calves so that the leg of the table was beside them before planting her feet firmly on the underside of the reloading bench. Clenching her teeth, she pushed as hard as she could, holding her breath.

        The circle of the cuff slid against the stone floor and caught at the edge of the table leg. Her thighs trembled as she lifted her hips, her fingernails digging into her palms as fresh sweat slicked her hairline, dripping down the side of her temple.

        After a tense moment the cuff jerked free, releasing her from the reloading bench. Joan dropped her feet to the floor and the table struck the ground with a resounding _thunk_.

        She tilted her head back and sighed, her calves trembling.

        “Thank you, God, thank you, thank you, thank you,” she murmured, catching her breath. She couldn’t afford much time to rest however—she sat up and drew her knees to her chest, sucking her stomach in as she drew her hands underneath her. In a moment her wrists were back in front, and some of the awful tension in her shoulder blades finally bled away. Joan rolled her shoulders and neck again before hefting herself to her feet. Now to find the key.

        She made her way to the crate that Joshua had fished one of the sets of cuffs from. It was awkward work, tearing through it with her hands bound. Fuck it, she thought heatedly—she thrust the crate onto its side, spilling its contents all over the cave floor to join the rest of the things she had scattered.

        A thrill of apprehension and twisted glee shot through her at the thought of Joshua entering to cave to find not Joan, but only a complete wreck of his things instead.

 _Fuck him_ , Joan thought acidly as she dusted her fingers through the scattered items littering the ground. _He means well_ , she rationalized, _but there’s no way I can do this. Waking Cloud doesn’t even know if I’m_ … She couldn’t bear to even think the word. _I have to get back to Vegas. Arcade, Julie… They’ll be able to tell me for sure. They’ll be able to help me._

        On the floor were several boxes of different ammunitions and other odds and ends, including another set of handcuffs. She picked through everything and cursed when there was no key to be found. A fresh wave of tears threatened her eyes but she bit them back, letting anger fuel her.

        “So I can’t find the key,” she mused, glancing up. Just beyond her line of sight was her Pipboy, sitting on top of the cabinet. She bit her lip. If she could reach Yes Man, her army of Securitrons could be here within a matter of hours, she was certain of it. She looked back at the mouth of the chamber. Ordinarily Joshua left her alone for hours and hours at a time… but these weren’t ordinary circumstances. He could arrive back at any moment. Gooseflesh rose on her arms and she turned back to the cabinet. There was no time to lose.

        There was no way she could reach up and grab her Pipboy, not on her own. She twisted and scanned the cave again. There had to be something, anything, that she could use to stand on. Her eyes lit up when she spotted the cinderblock seats that sat on either side of Joshua’s work table. Perfect.

        Within a couple minutes she had hauled them—quite awkwardly, with her wrists bound together in front of her—in front of the cabinet. Shakily she climbed on top of them, and it was enough—she swiped her Pipboy off the top of the cabinet and hopped down, her calves twitching as her feet struck the ground. She set her Pipboy on top of the cinderblocks and quickly flipped through it, opening up the Radio tab.

        She stared at her Pipboy, waiting for the list of available stations to populate. A long minute passed and Joan tapped her fingers against the side of the cinderblock impatiently. Another minute passed and she flipped to one of the other tabs before switching back to the Radio.

        Still nothing.

        “Fuck!” Joan cursed, loudly enough that it echoed back to her. She had never bothered listening to the radio in Zion, preferring instead to immerse herself in the peaceful silence of the valley—it never occurred to her that the park was so isolated that it would be beyond the reach of any radio towers. Joan began to frantically pace back and forth.

        She would have to leave the valley to send a radio message to Yes Man, as soon as she could manage to reach some trace of civilization. Unarmed and with her hands cuffed, on top of everything. Her eyes darted to the mouth of the cavern again. She couldn’t very well just waltz out of the cave into the cove, either. Knowing Joshua, he was seated by the fire or exercising with the Dead Horses—he rarely left the camp otherwise.

        An alternative dawned on her—there was the back entrance of the cave, not twenty paces from where she was standing now, leading to the cliff that overlooked the Eastern Virgin. She paused, the wheels in her head rapidly spinning. She could take her pack and risk breaking her neck maneuvering down the side of the cliff; or she could stay here, trapped for months, and be forced into carrying a monstrous burden, which could also kill her.

        It was an easy decision.

        She pushed her Pipboy into her pack before hoisting it up onto her shoulder as best as she could and setting off outside. Fortunately there was no one out on the ledge—only a small abandoned lean-to and a table stood there. She wasn’t sure what purpose this camp even served. Joshua had certainly never bothered sleeping up here, at least as far as she had ever seen. None of the Dead Horses or Sorrows even entered Joshua’s chamber of the Angel Cave unless they had very good reason to do so. She pushed the thought out of her mind. It didn’t matter.

        She made her way to the edge of the cliff and looked down. The water below her looked a thousand miles away from this height. She hiked her skirt up around her hips before placing her hands firmly on the edge of the cliff and beginning her slow descent, determined not to think about it too much—she had climbed up and down cliff-sides just like this back in the Mojave, and this would be no different.

        She pinched her eyes shut as she climbed—her bound hands were making this significantly more difficult than she had anticipated. More than once her fingers slipped against the warm red rocks, and she was forced to scramble with the tips of her toes, just managing to cling to the side of the mountain. The added imbalance of her pack wasn’t helping her either. She opened her eyes again and looked down. She was about halfway down the cliff now, the water still treacherously far away from her. If she dropped her pack into it from this distance, it would surely alert the Dead Horses camp, which was only around the corner from her; never mind that she couldn’t risk destroying her Pipboy, which was her single best shot out of this mess. She gritted her teeth and continued, brimming with determination.

        After what felt like hours, her toes brushed the water and she gasped with relief. Slowly she lowered herself into the Eastern Virgin, first taking a thorough look at the stream below to make sure she wasn’t about to step right into one of the traps lining the brook. Free and clear, she let her feet strike the bed of the water and she immediately made her way upstream, walking as quickly as she dared, praying that a very angry Joshua Graham wasn’t about to come charging at her, followed by a mob of concerned Dead Horses and Sorrows.

        Time seemed to slow to a crawl, even though she knew she was making good time—before long she was clambering up onto the dock that led to the road ahead. Though she was determined not to turn and look at it, she could feel the burning, bloody eyes of the painting of Joshua on her, as if it were monitoring her. For a delirious moment she felt as though it would shriek and alert the real Joshua Graham to what she was doing. She pressed on, her feet carrying her as swiftly as they could up the steep incline of the pavement.

        The valley was a relatively safe area, especially compared to the places she had been to in the rest of the wasteland, but it wasn’t completely free of danger. In the distance, Joan could spy a family of the large geckos that stalked the valley. None posed an immediate threat to her, but it was enough to remind her that Joshua had taken her trusted sniper rifle, carrying it down to the camp with him. She paused and cursed. That rifle had been in her hands for months now, plucked from the corpse of a Legion assassin. Boone had helped teach her how to use it effectively—and effective they had been. She had never kept an exact headcount of just how many Legionaries she had destroyed with it, only that it had been enough to net her a winning place in the competition of ears she had taken part in with the NCR; she and Boone had traded turns spotting for each other, making a sort of morbid game of the event. It all seemed laughably distant now.

        At the thought of Boone, her stomach ached—on impulse she diverted her course. Boone had taught her how to survive, and she wasn’t going to disappoint him. An idea had occurred to her: it would set her back some valuable time, but it would be worth it to survive within the valley and outside of it, at least until she could radio for proper help.

***

        The sun was high in the sky now, beating down on Joan’s scalp. She had been making her way to the west side of the valley, growing steadily more anxious as she traveled. She had been gone for hours now—had Joshua noticed yet? She had seen no trace of either Dead Horses or Sorrows. Even if she did see them, she was perfectly allowed—under usual circumstances, at least—to traverse the valley as she pleased. Would Joshua have told them that he’d handcuffed her and attempted to hold her hostage?

        She paused, the anxiety nestling deeper within her stomach. More importantly: would the Dead Horses or Sorrows even care? Joshua had been their acting war chief for several months at this point, possibly even longer. Many—probably almost all of them—held a heroes worship for him. Joan’s pace slowed to a crawl as she contemplated the situation. Passing Dawn alone seemed to view Joshua as a mere mortal, and even she still completely deferred to him.

        She wasn’t wrong to feel that way, Joan thought; it was difficult for even herself to acknowledge this much darker, unpredictable side of him. Had the tribals been exposed to that side of him and come to just accept that as a part of who Joshua Graham was? For a moment Joan felt completely and utterly stupid and naïve.

        She slowed to a complete stop as a terrible wringing sensation clenched her stomach. Despite everything, it still ached to be leaving Zion. To think of all that could have been. For the first time, Joshua actually wanted her to stay—but at what cost?

        Joan looked down at her abdomen. It was as flat as it had ever been. She couldn’t possibly be carrying anything inside her. Many women weren’t even capable of that, not since the Great War. She could stay in the valley and entertain Joshua’s bizarre fantasy—she stifled a numb, horrified giggle to even think of Joshua fathering a child, much less herself trying to raise one—but where would she be left when it inevitably turned out to be nothing? How long would he keep her here before kicking her out of the valley? She sniffed and continued, hastening her pace to make up for the time she’d spent idiotically dawdling.

        She was only speeding up the inevitable. There was nothing inside her, and she was going to leave this valley on her own terms before Joshua forced her to leave it. She held her head high as she continued, flooding with relief at the sight of the Red Gate finally coming into view in the distance.

        In no time at all she had reached the natural monument, her dress shoes slapping against the sun heated red rocks surrounding it. The thought of the last time she had been here crossed her mind, but she bit her lip against it. She would miss Joshua, but Passing Dawn was right—she would bear the reminder of him on her finger for the rest of her life. Maybe she would see him again one day, in the distant future. For now, all that she wanted was to return home to the Mojave.

        She thought of her friends there. She had told them she might be gone for a few months; they were almost assuredly beginning to anticipate her arrival by now, and possibly even worrying about her. Abruptly, she was overcome with homesickness and was eager to see them again, as well as the rest of the Mojave. Zion was a lovely retreat, but New Vegas was her _home_.

        As she proceeded at last through the great stone arch, Joan heard a twig snap behind her, and she jerked her head around.

        A Dead Horse scout was creeping through the rocks, only a stone’s throw away from her. Joan’s feet ground to a halt, ice flooding her veins. The scout looked young, younger even that Follows Chalk, and by some miracle he didn’t seem to have noticed her. Joan lowered herself to a crouch and scuttled behind one of the enormous boulders nestled at the base of the arch. Lowering her chin to her chest, she cursed silently.

        There was only one weapon of note that she had seen during her time canvassing the valley, and it lay barely thirty feet from where she was crouching now. It was true that it had been lying barely concealed from the elements for centuries, but she recalled that it had been tucked away fairly well, at least out of the worst of the weather, when she first stumbled across the skeletal remains of Randall Clark. She could kick herself now for disrupting it when she was clawing through Clark’s faded military sack, but at least it would have only spent a couple months totally exposed. Boone and Sunny Smiles had taught her enough about the care of firearms that she considered herself more than proficient with them—she took enormous pride in her sniper rifle and kept it as well maintained as a treasured prewar artifact. She was confident that she could give the rifle that Randall Clark had left in his death a field stripping and have it in functional order in no time. Far from optimal, but good enough. It only needed to last her as long as it would take to send a message to Yes Man.

        As she sat hidden, she pulled her pack between her knees and quickly rifled through it, finally producing her Pipboy. She refreshed the Radio tab and stared hawkishly at it, worrying at her lip as she waited. A minute passed and the list failed to populate, just as it had in the Angel Cave. Joan sighed. It had been a long shot, but one worth trying. Hunching down, she wriggled the strap back over her shoulder. The longer she sat, the more her various aches and pains began to creep up on her: hot angry buzzing in her shoulders, her calves as tense as rocks, and the uncomfortable chafing that had set in around her wrists from the cuffs rubbing against them.

        She poked her nose around the edge of the boulder, briefly scanning the area around the Red Arch.  The Dead Horse scout was nowhere to be seen. She wasn’t even entirely sure he was looking for her, but she couldn’t risk him reporting what he had seen to Joshua. Still, his absence was enough to motivate her to continue. She pulled herself to her feet and made her way up the incline, to Randall Clark’s final resting place.

        The skeleton was exactly as she and Joshua had left it two months ago. A bottle of whiskey and a few other items were scattered around the bones and the sack, undisturbed. Beside him was what she had come for—a prewar service rifle. She hadn’t exactly scrutinized it the last time she had been here, but it looked more or less the same, aside from the rust that had begun to creep across the metal of the tip and sights. Annoying, but a mostly cosmetic problem, from what she could tell.

        She spent a few moments clearing a large space beside the bones before taking a spare dress shirt from her pack and spreading it out on the ground, as flat and neatly as she could. Disassembling a gun that she wasn’t familiar with was enough of a challenge, let alone doing it with her wrists only having a few inches of clearance from each other. Still, Randall Clark had done her a favor—within his pack was a box of tools, and she used them to disassemble the rifle. She worked as quickly as she could, taking care to lay each piece neatly on the stiff white material of her shirt, leaving glossy black smudges.

        Using a rag from within her own pack, Joan set about cleaning the bits and pieces as best as she could, but soon she ran into a problem. She needed something long and thin to really work into the barrel of the service rifle. She turned her head, scanning the rocks around her—a stick would have been excellent, but she couldn’t spot any, only pebbles and dirt. She turned back to the skeleton beside her and stared at it.

        “… Forgive me for what I am about to do.”

        It was wrong to desecrate a body in this way, but Joan couldn’t deny that it was a little fitting—she snatched up one of the narrow but sturdy bones of Randall Clarks forearm and draped the rag around it before pushing it into the barrel of the gun. It was a perfect fit.

        Randall Clark had been a survivalist, she thought as she worked. If anyone on this earth could understand the necessity of doing what had to be done, it would be him—this was a practical means to an end, and nothing else. Still, she worked as fast as she could and was relieved when she was finished, taking care to place his arm bone precisely where she had picked it up from. After that, she assembled the gun again. While it still looked the same, she was at least reasonably certain that it wouldn’t backfire in her face if she was forced to use it.

        She held the rifle in her hands and considered it. Roughly carved into the stock was a single word: Arrêt!

        She had no idea what it meant, but thought that perhaps Arcade would be able to tell her when she got back to the Mojave.

        Awkwardly she hefted the rifle up to her shoulder to try to familiarize herself with it. She looked down the sights and frowned before tilting the rifle back and forth. Her grip wasn’t exactly steady with her hands so close together, but unless her eyes were deceiving her, the sight was misaligned. She snorted. _It’ll just have to do_.

        She placed the service rifle back down and searched through Randall Clark’s bag again, producing a few boxes of appropriate rounds for it. Spending a few minutes to load the gun, she had to nod in sage approval of Randall Clark’s choices—the gun required pretty hefty ammunition, of a large enough caliber that a single shot would be sure to stop anyone—or _anything_ —dead in its tracks. Despite the problems with it, this looked to be a fine rifle, and for a moment she was pleased to have it added to her collection. She doubted she’d be replacing her sniper rifle any time soon—or at least the new one she would be buying once she returned to Vegas—but this would make a solid backup. She’d long thought of learning to use a weapon that was suitable for closer range, and this one would fit that role admirably.

        Finally she slung her new rifle over her shoulder and stood, ready to depart Zion, but she couldn’t resist one final moment to enjoy the valley; walking up to the crop of stone that stood over the river, she cast a long, wistful look over the winding Eastern Virgin.

_I really did love you. I wish it hadn’t turned out like this… but I hope we meet again someday. I’ll miss you._

        Turning on her heel, she headed back down to the arch, noting that the sun was beginning to descend in the sky; she sped up her pace.

        Just as Joan rounded the corner of the arch, she spotted Joshua Graham. The Dead Horse scout that she had seen was trailing behind him, as silent as he had been earlier. Joshua was walking quickly toward the Red Gate, his heeled shoes striking the stones with purpose—at the sight of her, his brows lowered even further, the flesh around his eyes reddening with fury as his gait picked up from a fast walk to a furious charge.

        Joan paled and froze before bouncing rapidly back and forth on her heels with indecision. She jerked her head, looking back up the incline to the arch, and then at the curving mountainside to her left. She cursed herself for wasting so much time cleaning Randall Clark’s old gun; the damned scout had seen her after all. For a tense moment she was afraid she’d burst into tears of terror and stress before adrenaline kicked in—on impulse she spun around and dashed back up the incline leading to the cliff that overlooked the river.

        “Stop running!” Joshua roared, the heels of his snakeskin shoes pounding after her. Joan didn’t dare turn around—she was already at the ledge of the cliff and trying to secure her pack around her shoulders so that she could climb down it. Joshua might be faster than her, but he wasn’t nearly as agile. Hobbled even as she was, she was certain that she could maneuver her way down the cliff and escape, just as she had done outside the Angel Cave.

        She had just lowered herself off the ledge, her fingertips digging into the hot red rock, when a bandaged hand shot out and seized her upper arm. She shrieked with pain as Joshua Graham dragged her back up the side of the cliff, pack and all, as though she was a doll.

        Joshua seemed to be beyond words, his eyes blazing with rage as he hauled her back onto the ledge—Joan’s heels bounced off the jagged stone as he began to drag her back toward the arch. It was as though her upper arm was in a vice—she ground her teeth together with the pressure around her bicep, certain that there would be a rainbow of bruises there by the time night fell. If he pulled any harder, she was sure he’d tear her arm straight out of the socket.

        “Let me go!” She tried to slap at him and failed, forgetting that her wrists were still locked together. Instead she swung her leg out and kicked blindly; by fortune she struck him in the back of the knee, and it was just enough that his grip on her arm loosened as he stumbled, trying to correct his balance. Joan wriggled away from him, and his red fingertips clawed out for her, slashing the air.

        As he spun around, Joan freed the rifle she’d spent far too much time cleaning from her back and aimed it at Joshua’s chest. His brows shot up.

        “Don’t come any closer,” Joan threatened.

        Joshua’s eyes immediately shuttered—without hesitation or fear he closed the gap between them and seized the barrel of the gun, ripping it out of her hands. Joan howled in agony as her scarred finger caught the trigger guard, and she immediately bent double, cradling her freshly injured digit to her stomach. Joshua slung the gun over his shoulder, just as he had done with her sniper rifle, before seizing her upper arm again and marching forward.

        Hot tears streamed down Joan’s cheeks as she curled her hands around each another, her forefinger already beginning to swell. She swallowed in numb terror at what had just transpired before speaking, her voice thin and quivering.

        “I… I could have _shot_ you…”

        Joshua looked coldly over his shoulder at her.

        “You wouldn’t have—if you’d truly wanted me dead, you wouldn’t have given me warning. And stop crying.”

        Joan was half walking, half dragging her heels, as Joshua steered her out of the Red Gate. The Dead Horse scout that had accompanied him had disappeared again.

        “I have been scouring this valley all afternoon looking for you,” Joshua continued. “You attack me, you leave my cave in shambles, and now you’ve had the nerve to point a _gun_ at me?”

        Joan remained silent—the fight had gone out of her as Joshua continued to tow her along, awkwardly half jogging to keep up with him. She chanced a look at her finger and winced. It was bent at a stiffly unnatural angle, and she was certain it was broken. She pinched her eyes shut in misery as Joshua continued to scold her.

        “I can see that I was an idiot to leave you alone earlier. You’re too damned clever for your own good. I’m only keeping you here until I can be certain that you’re with child—this is for your own good as well as mine.”

        Joan narrowed her eyes at him, sniffing back tears.

        “How is this for _my_ fucking good?”

        Joshua paused, looking down at her.

        “I’m preventing you from casting your soul into the immortal lake of fire. If that isn’t the greatest good anyone has ever done for you, then I don’t know what is.”

        Joan stared at him, her mouth agape, and Joshua continued his brutal march, leading them back to the Dead Horse’s camp.

        By the time they had reached the camp again, Joan’s entire body was aching and burning with pain, though her finger was by far the worst offender. It was visibly swollen now, the scar tissue stretched painfully taut around the digit. Joshua did not bother to stop and wring the excess water out of his jeans, instead marching Joan up to his lean-to by the fire.

        “I’m tired. I’m sure you are too,” he said. His arm jerked, and for a moment Joan thought he was going to hurl her at the bedding. He must have narrowly caught himself because he did not do that—instead he  tentatively let her go, staring her down as he bent over and tugged off his  dripping shoes.

        Joan rolled her arm, bringing her bound hands up to her shoulder in an attempt to massage where Joshua had been gripping her arm for the past few hours. Her hands couldn’t quite reach the affected area, but it didn’t matter anyway, she supposed, since her finger hurt too much to do anything anyway. She bit her lip, tears threatening to rain down her cheeks again.

        “Stop that,” Joshua commanded her.

        “My finger…” Joan’s voice came out in a tense, reedy whisper. Joshua stared at her skeptically.

        “I already told you, there’s nothing wrong with your finger.”

        The corners of Joan’s lips tugged downward as she held up her hands so that Joshua could see for himself the queerly crooked bend to her forefinger. It was as thick around as a sausage now. His eyebrows shot up in surprise before he hastily looked away from her.

        “… I see. I’ll get Waking Cloud.”

        He immediately took off, heading for another part of the camp. Even though the sun had long set, he returned with Waking Cloud by his side a minute later. Joan hadn’t bothered trying to run, her calves burning and aching from straining against the ammunition reloading bench during the morning.

        “Oh, Joan…” Waking Cloud said, looking her up and down. Her face wore an expression of exasperated sympathy. Over her shoulder she could see Passing Dawn, who was also watching her. She gave Joan a dim sort of wave, as though she’d expected this. Joan faintly waved back.

        “What has happened?” Waking Cloud said, taking Joan’s hands. Her eyes narrowed at the cuffs around her wrists and she briefly glanced up at Joshua. He stared back at her unflinchingly and she promptly looked away again.

        “Can you bend your finger?” she asked, reverting her attention back to Joan.

        She shook her head.

        “I thought as much. It is definitely broken. Do not worry, it will heal just fine. It is a common injury,” Waking Cloud finished.

        Joan and Waking Cloud sat down cross legged in the sand, facing each other. Waking Cloud withdrew a few items from a satchel around her waist and Joshua left them, heading inside the Angel Cave. Joan stared at him as he left before turning back to Waking Cloud.

        “ _Please_ ,” she whispered urgently. “You’ve got to help me. He did this to me—he burned my finger, now he broke it, and he’s trying to force me to stay here. All because he thinks I…” she swallowed back the word that she still refused to say. “There’s nothing inside me, please, you have to know this.”

        Waking Cloud pursed her lips at Joan with concern.

        “I was very serious earlier, Joan. I did not casually suggest that you are with child, and I would not have said so if I did not truly think it. Joshua is… intense. But he is doing what he believes is right.”

        Joan slammed her hands against the ground.

        “He literally has me in fucking handcuffs!” she shouted, not caring that the rest of the camp could hear her now. She felt as though she was losing her mind—did one else truly see nothing wrong with this?

        “I don’t know how you—how _you people_ do things out here in the wild, but back in the Mojave, in the _civilized lands_ , this would be inexcusable!”

        At Joan’s words, Waking Cloud’s eyes immediately narrowed—her movements as she secured a small wooden dowel to Joan’s finger grew stiffly efficient, and she wasn’t as gentle as she had been only a moment before.

        “Well you are not _in_ the civilized lands,” she replied curtly. “We do things just fine out here—maybe you should have convinced Follows-Chalk of that, and he would not have left us.”

        Joan’s sputtered as hot color flooded her face and ears as Waking Cloud quickly finished putting a splint on Joan’s finger, just in time for Joshua to arrive by her side again. He had changed into a dry pair of jeans, and his SLCPD vest was gone, leaving him in his woven undershirt.

        “Your finger will be fine, Joan” Waking Cloud said before jumping to her feet and walking away. Joan stared after her, her mouth gaping in dismay. Joshua immediately knelt to take her side and she tried to pull away from him—his fingers locked around her wrist before she’d barely budged.

        “Don’t even try it,” Joshua warned. He appeared exhausted, the lines around his eyes deep and drooping. Joan relented. Joshua took a moment to inspect the job Waking Cloud had done on her finger; satisfied with it, he rummaged in the pocket of his jeans instead, producing a small metal key. Joan’s eyes immediately zeroed in on it.

        “This is just to remove the extra pair,” Joshua said. He unlocked the extra set of handcuffs that had been dangling from her wrists all day. With the excess weight removed, her cuffs weren’t quite as uncomfortable, though it did little to relieve the tender, chafed skin under them. Joshua considered her wrists for a moment before swiftly unlocking each cuff as well. Joan’s chest expanded with joy for a moment before Joshua jerked her around, yanking her arms behind her back.

        “ _No_ , please—”

        “After everything you did earlier? I don’t think so,” Joshua replied, securing her cuffs as tightly as they had been only moments prior. Joan’s shoulder blades pinched against each other and she squeezed her eyes shut again.

        “It’s late and I want to go to bed,” Joshua said. He leaned over her and arranged the bedding in his lean-to before plunging his hands into her pack, which he’d set beside it. He spread out her sleeping bag on the ground directly next to his furs, overlapping them.

        “Get in.” He gestured to his lean-to and Joan stared at it stupidly for a moment before he gave her an aggravated push toward it. “You clearly can’t be trusted to be left alone. So for the foreseeable future at least, this will be your new sleeping arrangement. I’ll take your sleeping bag.”

        Joan lurched forward before awkwardly climbing into the lean-to, her face growing pink in spite of everything. Joshua helpfully drew back some of the furs for her and she settled into them before he covered her, tucking her in. The furs smelled intensely of him, and a wild flurry of emotions flew through her then, the cazadors stirring far below it all. Immediately Joshua crawled into her sleeping bag, so close beside her that their bodies touched.

        Joan looked away into the darkness, her face flashing fully red. They hadn’t been in such intimate proximity since that night.

        As soon as Joshua settled in, he twisted onto his side—his face was less than a foot away from her own. She tried to look at anything but him, but he was unavoidable from this distance. His bright blue eyes bore into hers as he spoke.

        “I _will_ notice if you try anything during the night. Try to harm me, or yourself, or try to run away, and I’ll have you fully tied and cuffed to that bench up in the cave around the clock. Do you understand?”

        Joan paled; she nodded shakily at him before he rolled over, facing the fire and ignoring her.


	11. Suffocation Blues

Chapter 11: Suffocation Blues

_Cause soon I'll keep you here with your coffin closed; Cause the secrets that I'm keepin' won't bother me_

        Joshua was first to rise the next morning, just as the sun began to climb over the tall red rocks surrounding the camp. Waking was jarring at first; he had grown so accustomed to his lean-to that he felt conspicuously exposed—yet at the same time nearly smothered by—the too-small sleeping bag he’d spent the night under the stars in. He sat up and looked over at Joan.

        She was lying on her side, her cheek mashed into his pillow, her arms tucked behind her back. Her sunglasses sat askew on her face, and for a moment he felt a stab of pity for her. Gingerly he reached down and seized the bridge of them, gently tugging them away from her narrow face before folding them and setting them down beside her. As silently as he could manage, he unzipped the sleeping bag and stepped away from it, leaving her to rest.

***

        By the time Joan finally began to stir, the sun was high above the camp. She opened her eyes and the first thing she registered was that despite the heat of the morning, she was pleasantly shaded. Opening her eyes, she attempted to bring her left wrist to her face to check the time—her arms jerked synchronously and she winced at the hot blade of pain that cut across her spine and shoulders. To make things worse, the sensation triggered the nausea she had been experiencing each morning for the past couple weeks and she swiftly pinched her eyes shut, breathing slowly and steadily, swallowing back the thick saliva that had already begun to well up inside her mouth.

        She opened her eyes again in time to see a shadow on the warm sand beside her, merging into the darkness cast by her lean-to. Joshua dropped into a squat beside her, and he was holding out a piece of what she assumed was bread—without her glasses, everything more than a foot from her face was a blur.

        “Are you sick this morning?” he asked. Joan automatically tried to move her hands before glaring at him. For a venomous moment she hoped he’d come closer to her, so that she might vomit on him. She pushed the ill feeling away and wriggled her shoulders instead. Joshua’s fuzzy outline seemed to lock in confusion for a moment before he let out a low noise of comprehension.

        “Of course,” he said. He continued to sit on his haunches, apparently debating what to do with her. She lurched forward, her stomach twisting uncomfortably again. She refused to beg him to unlock her handcuffs.

        Fortunately it seemed that Joshua grasped that—he gently pulled her out of the lean-to, prodding her to roll onto her side. She obliged him, and he finally unlocked the cuffs. She grimaced with pain as her wrists and shoulder blades came apart from each other for the first time in more than twelve hours. Shakily she pulled herself first to her knees and then to her feet, stopping only to snatch her glasses off the furs and slide them back onto her face. Joshua had stood up as well, the bread still in his hand. Joan glanced at it as she massaged her raw wrists, stiffly holding her broken forefinger out of the way.

        Joshua was watching her, and Joan looked away, pinkness creeping up her throat and into her face. He hesitated for a moment before finally speaking.

        “I’m sorry. About your finger,” he said. “I don’t regret disarming you, but I hadn’t intended to hurt you. I hope you understand.”

        She hadn’t expected him to apologize—she looked up at his bandaged face, feeling overly warm. She supposed it was a weak sort of apology, given the multitude of other aches and pains raging through her body that he had caused, but it was nice to hear it nonetheless.

        “What did you do with that rifle?” she asked him. She couldn’t quite bring herself to formally forgive him, not yet. Maybe when he finally let her go back to the Mojave, she would find it within herself to do the Christian thing.

        “I’ve put it with your other belongings,” he replied, aloof. Joan narrowed her eyes at him, but that was all that he had to say about it. He grew stern after a moment.

        “You need to eat something. Although we don’t know for sure if you’re carrying my child, it would only be wise to proceed as though you are.”

        Joan had cast her eyes away at his words, worrying her thumb against the band of bandages that yet again enveloped her forefinger.

        “Well I’m not hungry,” she said flatly. She wasn’t, either—under the best circumstances she didn’t have much of an appetite. The only thing she craved right now was a strong drink and a syringe of Med-X; Joshua seemed unlikely to provide her with either.

        She looked back at Joshua and irritation colored not only his face, but his entire body—his shoulders were tense, his fingertips digging into the hunk of bread he’d brought for her. She took a step backward from him.

        “Don’t be difficult,” he said after a tense moment. “After yesterday, I don’t particularly feel like fighting with you.”

        He had taken a sharp step toward her, to make up for the step she had taken backward, and Joan shrank. She doubted Joshua would strike her, but she hurt in enough different places that she didn’t want to tempt him. Not to mention that she was tired too—not just physically but mentally worn and fatigued. Less than two days ago she had been broken hearted to leave Zion, to leave Joshua… she wished she could go back to that. She cast her eyes down to the sand and Joshua seemed to relax.

        “Lunch is nearly finished—come on, we can eat together.”

        Joan followed him to one of the picnic tables dotting the camp. She would yield—for now.

***

        Dull light from the oil lamp flickered across the work table in the Angel Cave, illuminating the tray of food that took up almost the entire surface of it. Joshua Graham sat on the other side; Joan could feel his eyes on her as she limply pushed a spoon around one of the dishes before her. Finally she was able to hold a spoon without any trace of awkwardness, despite the padding of bandages that laced her nearly healed forefinger. She lifted the spoon noncommittally, carrying a small piece of tato on it.

        The food before her was an impressive array, at least within Zion: fruit, dried meat, and a bowl of stew. Brahmin’s milk had been acquired from the traders that had begun coming through the valley—a cup of it sat beside the tray, untouched.

        “Eat.”

        “Please… Just let me go. It’s been a month already, for God’s sake.”

        “No. I know enough of women to know that it’s still too early to tell. Now _eat_.”

        Joan glanced up at Joshua. His hands were clasped in front of him, his eyes sharp in the lamplight. Grudgingly she raised the spoon to her lips. A month ago she had hatched the seemingly brilliant idea of starving herself, but Joshua had put a swift end to that, threatening to hold her down and force feed her if he had to. She had decided to spare both of them the indignity of such a thing.

        He had been her prison keeper since the day following Waking Cloud’s grim prognosis. Daily she asked him if she could return to the Mojave, and each time he bluntly refused. She wasn’t sure why she bothered asking anymore, except that it felt too much like giving up. It was torment enough to choke down the food he provided for her each day—she had to have something to hold on to, to see her through until she could finally leave Zion. Waking Cloud and Joshua were wrong, they had to be.

        She pressed her eyes closed and forced down more of the food in front of her. In the back of her mind she registered that it had been prepared with more care than what was afforded to the rest of the tribe: the yucca was roasted, bringing out the deeper, sweeter flavors of the fruit, and the stew was spiced with salt and pepper, among other more exotic spices. It all tasted like ashes.

        Since the first day, Joshua had not laid a hand on her, beyond steering her into and out of the cave, to her relief. He was by her side constantly now, hawkishly monitoring her. He led her outside and latched her handcuff—now secured to her ankle, after he had taken pity on her when she cried about the pain in her shoulders and wrists—around a sturdy sapling while he worked with the Dead Horses. When he retreated into the Angel Cave so did she, sitting opposite him at his work table. His patience hadn’t wavered once—if he was bothered by her constant presence, he showed no indication of it. Most of their time was spent in silence: Joan stared and fumed at the walls, her bible neglected inside her suit jacket as Joshua maintained his firearms and directed the camp.

        Every night Joshua led her back outside. He would sit her down at the campfire before seating himself directly beside her, close enough that their hips pressed together. Each evening he read from the bible and the Dead Horses and Sorrows listened to him with rapt enjoyment.

        Joan’s extended presence had not gone unnoticed in the camp, nor had Joshua’s sudden investment in her—despite the fact that Waking Cloud had surely kept the information of Joan’s possible condition to herself, the tribals smiled broadly and knowingly at Joan. Waking Cloud beamed the brightest, having finally warmed up to her again. Joan typically ignored them all, staring balefully out into the darkness as she fantasized about escaping. A dangerous thought—to this day Joshua still directed parties of Dead Horses to continue scouring the valley for any possible White Legs that may have remained, and occasionally they found handfuls of them, still hiding out. She had no doubt that the entire camp would be after her if she did manage to slip away; even with a head start, she doubted she could evade them for long enough to get back to the Mojave. Never mind that Joshua had stripped her of her weapons and Pipboy: traveling blindly through Utah and northern Nevada would be a death sentence, especially since there were still wandering remnants of the Legion.

        She would endure—she was certain that within a few more weeks Joshua Graham would have to acknowledge that he had been wrong, and that he would finally release her.

        Joan pushed more of the food around on the tray in front of her, wondering if anyone was missing her by now in the Mojave—she had promised Yes Man and Arcade that she would be gone for a few months, tops. The spoon fell out of her fingertips, clattering to the tray.

        She was tired, so tired. The terrible sickness that plagued the mornings had persisted, leaving her continually exhausted and spent. She missed her friends in the Mojave: Cass, Boone, Arcade, Yes Man. She longed for the delights and sounds of the Strip, she even missed the throngs of tourists and patrons that ambled through the streets. The constant ache only added to her lingering fatigue, and the bounty of food that Joshua provided for her didn’t seem to energize her at all.

        “You should eat some more,” Joshua said softly. Delicately he lifted the spoon from her tray and handed it back to her. Joan accepted it, her eyes cast downward. All she wanted to do was sleep until the day he finally let her go. She had loved him once; though faint stirs of affection overcame her from time to time, she thought she might be happy if she never saw him again after this.

        Despite everything, she obediently continued to eat—she could feel his eyes on her the entire time.


	12. Control

Chapter 12: Control

_I was trapped like a prisoner in my skin; I was punished like an animal for my sins_

        Joan was sitting against the ammunition bench in Joshua’s chamber of the Angel Cave, the short, heavy chain of the handcuffs securing her ankle to the leg of it. Her shoulders were hunched as she stared morosely at the flickering and waving firelight the oil lamp was casting on the ground.

        Footsteps approached the cave and she glanced up—a shadow was bobbing along the wall of the corridor that led down to the camp below.

        Joshua Graham entered the cave, with Waking Cloud only a few steps behind him. He approached Joan before kneeling, unlocking both cuffs and freeing her.

        She resisted the urge to snort at the thought; he wasn’t freeing her so much as temporarily removing her leash. Yet another month had dragged by, and it had been nearly identical to the first: she and Joshua had fallen into a monotonous routine of doing nearly everything side by side, from eating meals to sleeping. She still asked daily to be released, to have her weapons and Pipboy returned to her so that she could return to the Mojave; still here she was, tethered to the ammunition workbench while he left to retrieve Waking Cloud. Despite nearly two months of good behavior, he was unwilling to forgive and forget her escape attempt. On some level, she supposed she couldn’t blame him.

        Joshua gently took her hand and helped her to her feet.

        “You look wonderful, Joan!” Waking Cloud was positively radiant today. Once a week she met with Joan in the Angel Cave and gave her a thorough looking over; Joshua stood stoically against the wall each time with his arms crossed, staring at Joan with the implicit warning on his face: _Don’t cause trouble; be good and obedient_.

        All of Waking Cloud’s prodding and poking was far too intimate for Joan’s comfort: she’d tug Joan’s dress shirt out of her skirt and look directly at the skin of her stomach before pressing her fingertips gently into the flesh. Joan was asked politely each time to unzip her skirt and pull it down so that Waking Cloud could look further below, inspecting her navel. Joan had finally stopped turning furiously red only a couple weeks ago.

        Without prompting today, Joan went ahead and unzipped her skirt. It had grown uncomfortably tight around her abdomen, leaving angry red scores in the flesh of her stomach. In the routine that Joshua had established, he retrieved the cinderblock stool he usually perched on at his work table, hefting it up and placing it in the middle of the floor of the cave. Joan sat down heavily on it and endured patiently as Waking Cloud made her weekly inspection of Joan’s health.

        “Have you been eating well?”

        “Yes.”

        “Good. What about rest, Joshua has not been running you as ragged as he runs the men, has he?” Waking Cloud teased.

        “No.”

        “Has the morning illness gone away yet? You have looked a bit less pale during the last week. Are you feeling more energetic?”

        “Yes.”

        Joan stared through the wall of the cave. Joshua had ordered her not to fight or resist against Waking Cloud, but he couldn’t compel her to be enthusiastic and happy during these awful and invasive meetings. Finally Waking Cloud pulled away, her face bright.

        “Well, it has been nearly four months now. You are so small, even the slightest change is noticeable—I am very confident that you are carrying a child! Isn’t that absolutely wonderful news? Not every woman is capable of enjoying this gift. You may be fearful, but you will grow to love this, Joan.” Waking Cloud’s voice grew soft and empathetic as she continued.

        “Motherhood changes a person, you know. I have three of my own, and they are the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. I know it may not feel like it right now, but in time you will see that this is the best thing that could have happened to you too.”

        Tears streamed silently down Joan’s face.

        Her hands hung slack and numb by her sides, her fingertips frozen as the other woman spoke, her words distant and thin, as though Joan was processing them through a broken radio. Joan wasn’t totally naïve: the tightness of her skirt, the weight she was already beginning to gain, the way her hair had seemed to change overnight, growing thicker and shinier; she could guess that something was different about herself. But now it felt as though Waking Cloud had torn reality and reshaped it with her words.

        She was pregnant.

        Waking Cloud gave Joan some parting instructions and plans for moving forward with the confirmation of  this news, but they fell on deaf ears as Joan sat, her shoulders hunching inward as she wrapped her arms protectively around her shuddering chest.

        Finally Waking Cloud departed, leaving her and Joshua Graham alone.

        As soon as she was gone, Joshua approached her before sitting on the floor beside her. Gently he pulled her off the cinderblock and into his arms, and Joan’s pale face bloomed with redness beneath the distraught contortion of her narrow features.

        “I can’t believe it…” Joshua trailed off. Joan’s back was to his chest, his arms ensconcing her with tenderness that she had no longer believed him to be capable of. “In all my years, I’ve never fathered a single child. To think that God would bless me after so long.”

        Joan stiffened in his arms; despite everything, it felt like he had sucker punched her in the stomach with the confirmation that he had indeed slept with other women, though rationally she knew that he had to have at some point, given his age and prior affiliation with the Legion. How many of those women had been slaves, with collars around their throats, and torn and filthy rags on their thin, abused bodies? Joshua had to have been fairly young when he and Edward had carved a path of brutality across the southwest; had he _ever_ been with a woman consensually? Joan’s breathing grew thin and labored as Joshua held her, his body radiating heat between them as his arms circled her more tightly. He buried his face into her hair affectionately.

        This was everything she had craved for months and months now. Even before she had returned to Zion for this trip, she would occasionally let girlish fantasy take her and imagine the two of them together much like this. His strong arms around her, holding her tenderly as he spoke softly to her in the darkness. She looked down at his bandaged forearms.

        “I can’t do this.”

        “Yes you can,” he replied. “You’ve survived many things, Joan. You told me that you were shot in the head. You’ve withstood being burned, as well as debridement. You’ve proven that you can handle _this_.” His warm hands came to rest firmly on the tiny swell of her abdomen.

        “ _I want to go home_ ,” she said through gritted teeth, hurt and infuriated that he seemed to only be focused on the thing inside her. “To the Mojave. I _have_ to have this taken care of before it’s too late, Joshua. I’m well enough to travel again, I haven’t been sick, and my finger is healed. It shouldn’t take me more than a couple weeks to make it back.”

        It was Joshua’s turn to stiffen again her.

        “You can’t just lea—”

        “I don’t want to do this and I don’t give a damn whether you think I’m capable of it or not,” Joan interrupted him, her voice growing hard. She finally pushed his arms away and crawled out of them. “Like it or not, I am fucking _leaving_ , and getting rid of this damned thing one way or another—”

        She had barely exited his arms when he twisted her around; before she could register what was happening, her back was slammed to the ground, her skull bouncing painfully off the rough stone. Joshua hovered over her.

        “I thought you said you _loved_ me,” Joshua demanded, his face less than a foot away from hers in the gloom. Joan recoiled from him, flushing deeply all the way up to her ears.

        “I—I don’t kno—”

        “Then do the right thing,” Joshua continued, speaking with intensity. Joan snarled back at him, furious that he would so brazenly try to use her affection for him against her.

        “The right thing is getting rid of this! One way or another, even if I have to throw myself off a goddamn cliff, this is _over_ —”

        Joshua jerked her and she cried out, her head bouncing off the floor again. He pressed closer to her, his face only inches away.

        “If I even suspect that you’re trying to bring harm to the life growing inside of you, to the child that is _mine_ , then you mark my words—I will ensure that you _never_ leave this valley.”

        Joan gasped, the color flooding from her face and leaving her ghostly pale. He bore down on her and she winced in pain.

        “Do you understand me?” he demanded. Joan twisted her face away, mashing her cheek into the stone floor and squeezing her eyes shut.

        “ _You’re scaring me_.”

        Hot tears had sprung up and she pinched her entire face against them, just barely managing to restrain herself. Joshua clenched down on her for a tense moment before she felt him draw back from her, releasing the painful grip he had on her shoulders. After a moment she dared to open her eyes again and look up at him.

        He was gazing down at her, a faint line between his brows as he studied her. Her breathing was shallow and rapid as she tried to press into the floor even harder. Finally he withdrew away from her entirely, sitting cross legged on the floor beside her and rubbing his temples with his scarred fingertips. She was still watching him when he extended one of his bandaged hands toward her. She eyed it cautiously.

        “… Please. Just take it,” he said. He sounded tired. She continued to hesitate but he sat patiently. After a few minutes she finally placed her hand in his and he delicately pulled her up. He didn’t try to pull her into his arms, instead letting her choose to sit at a distance from him.

        Several long minutes of silence passed between them. Joshua looked like he was searching for something to say; Joan watched him, growing steadily frustrated before breaking the silence.

        “You don’t even care about me,” she said with quiet resignation, finally tearing her eyes away from him and staring at the floor. Her face was burning as she continued.

        “You only care about the… the _thing_ , that’s inside me. You don’t even want me here, I’m just a fucking breeding brahmin to you,” she spat out, covering her face with her hands, unable to look at him. Her stomach twisted to finally admit it—he had never particularly wanted her in Zion. Even when she had first arrived, she could see that his reception hadn’t exactly been glowing. Before she had grown sick, he had been on the threshold of kicking her out. Tears threatened her eyes again but she shoved them back, swallowing hard.

        Joshua huffed beside her.

        “Don’t be an idiot,” he said. She jerked her face out of her hands and looked at him as he continued speaking.

        “If I didn’t care at all about you, I would have shoved you out of the valley the morning after I burned you. Don’t you think that would have been easier for me?”

        She shrank away from him—his voice had started to boom in the cavern, though it wasn’t directed at her so much as it was himself.

        “Do you even know what it’s like, to carry the weight of all the mistakes I’ve made?” he asked. “To face them each and every day? After I burned you, all I wanted to do was tell you to leave. So I wouldn’t have to look at you, wouldn’t have to face what I had done. But I _didn’t_.”

        He paused, turning his head to stare at her. She sat in front of him, locked in his gaze.

        “When I saw you that morning, and you still seemed so determined to stay here… I wanted to help you. It wasn’t just to make things right for me—though I won’t deny that that was a part of it—but it was because of _you_. I thought you deserved better from me. I wouldn’t have washed your hand for you each day if I didn’t care at all about you, Joan,” he finally finished.

        Joan glanced down at her finger. It was true that he had offered to teach her how to wash her hand, she thought back; but he never actually had—he had always meticulously cleaned it for her, no matter how upset or unhappy he was with her. She looked back up at him, her cheeks brilliantly pink.

        “Make no mistake,” Joshua continued, his voice growing dark once more. “I cannot allow you to destroy the life that’s growing inside you. It isn’t _just_ yours—I’ve contributed to its creation just as much as you have. Do you really think that all you are to me is cattle? If I desired a child that badly, I could have taken any number of slaves during my time as Edward’s right hand. Even during the past five years, there was no shortage of women that had taken an interest in me.”

        Joan jerked her face away, the color in her cheeks turning dark and upset; it stung to be reminded of his past again, let alone all the other women that had apparently also nurtured infatuation for him. He reached out and seized her chin, twisting her back to face him.

        “But that wasn’t the case. I’m not going to ignore the gift that God has bestowed on both of us. Despite numerous odds, you came back to Zion, and I believe that it was for a much greater purpose than merely seeing me again. Trust me, I didn’t intend for any of this to happen; but now that it has, I’m glad for it.

        “It may seem like a terrifying and winding dark path, but it’s one that we’ll navigate together. For better or worse, Joan… I’m by your side.”

        Joan pinched her lips together, averting her eyes from him. Everything still hurt: her stomach lurched and jumped to even contemplate the future, and everything that it would bring with it, but…

        She sighed, too tired to continue to fight him for the moment. It had been so long since he had been kind to her.

        “… Okay.”

        With that he pulled away from her and drew himself up to his feet before extending his hand to her; she accepted it and stood beside him, straightening out her suit jacket and skirt.

        “It’s nearly evening,” Joshua said, leading her out of the chamber, past the handcuffs that were lying on the ground beside the reloading table. “Would you like to go out? A caravan is passing through the valley today—I’m sure we can catch them if we leave now. You shouldn’t stay inside so much anyway; the sun would be good for you.”

        Joan cast a glance back at the cuffs.

        “I think I’d like that.”

        Together they set off, heading for the mouth of the cave, side by side.

        “So, caravans are already coming through again?” Joan asked with curiosity as she and Joshua exited the cave; she was happy to talk about anything other than herself and the terrible bump in her abdomen. They entered the waters of the Eastern Virgin and Joan hiked up her skirt, trailing behind him as he led the way.

        “Yes. Enough of the White Legs have been either destroyed or scattered that the caravans have begun to come through again,” Joshua explained. “The 80s still pose a threat, but they’re used to them by now, I expect. I don’t envy the life of a traveling merchant.”

        “I see,” Joan said quietly. Joshua stepped up onto the small deck that led to the main road and turned around, offering his hand to her. Joan cast her eyes down before accepting it and letting him help her up.

        “I can do this myself, you know,” she said as he paused to wring out the legs of his jeans.

        “You shouldn’t put undue stress on yourself,” he replied matter-of-factly as he shook the water out of his shoes. He looked up in time to catch the wry look on her face and he gave her an exhausted look of his own.

        “Don’t be so averse to help. There’s virtue not only in helping others, but in allowing others to serve you. It’s good for the soul,” he said, brushing past her and walking up the path. Joan took off after him, her face red.

        They didn’t have to wander the valley long before they could hear the chuffing of brahmin, their hooves loud against the torn pavement in the otherwise silent park. A decently sized caravan took up much of the road in front of them: a couple dozen people were walking beside a number of carts, all drawn by fattened two headed bovine. At the sight of Joshua Graham and Joan they slowed, drawing to a stop before twisting to face them.

        A woman wearing a faded white tank top and a smile trotted up to them. A shotgun was strapped to her back.

        “I didn’t think there was anyone civilized in these parts,” she said, thrusting her hand out at Joshua. She seemed utterly unperturbed by the bandages obscuring his face and forearms, let alone his blackened fingers. He eyed her hand for a moment before shaking it briefly. The woman’s warm brown eyes swung around to Joan.

        “Is this your daughter?” she asked cheerfully. Joshua stiffened and Joan’s face grew hot once again.

        “ _No_ ,” Joshua replied shortly. The woman laughed disarmingly before spinning around and leading them to the wagons.

        “Hey, I’m not one to judge.”

        Joshua narrowed his eyes before following her, and Joan tagged along after him. She tugged her suit jacket around her stomach, obscuring the small bump there—it was embarrassing enough for the tribals in the camp to look at her so knowingly, let alone a group of strangers. She had been— _and still_ _was_ —the leader of New Vegas; coldness snaked up her fingertips to think of how drastically her life had changed yet again and how far she had fallen. She wondered again if her friends in the Mojave had begun to miss her yet. It felt like a lifetime since she had seen Arcade, Cass, Boone, and Yes Man. Distantly she wondered if Veronica had ever returned to them.

        As Joan browsed the wares of the traders—Joshua had already begun haggling with one of them over the price of primer—the woman with the shotgun approached her again.

        “Been here long?” she asked. Joan tugged her suit jacket a bit tighter around her midsection.

        “Yeah, I guess.”

        “It’s beautiful here, isn’t it,” the woman continued, looking into the sunset while shading her eyes with one hand. She thrust the other out at Joan with a grin. “Drusa, nice to meet you.”

        Joan looked at her hand cautiously before taking it. The woman had relaxed, friendly eyes, and her handshake was firm. Some of the tension in Joan’s shoulders melted away.

        “Joan. Is this your first time in Zion?”

        “You bet. Always wanted to come here,” Drusa replied, pulling her hand back and leaning against the cart. “I’ve heard wonderful things about the valley, at least until the beginning of the year. What was that all about?”

        Joan sighed. Had it really been six months since she and Joshua had dealt with the White Legs?

        “Just some tribal raiders,” Joan said. A technical truth, but it ached to look back on that time, and how carefree she had been.

        “The tribes are really all over the place up here, huh?” Drusa said before leaning in close to Joan and speaking quietly. “We just came out of Arizona. This is the first time I’ve seen tribals in a long while.”

        At the mention of Arizona, the hairs on Joan’s arms bristled against her dress shirt.

        “… What’s Arizona like right now?” she asked hesitantly. She hadn’t thought of the Legion in months—they were so far removed from Zion that it was as if they hadn’t even existed at all.

        “Well the Legion’s all gone to shit, so there’s not much there right now,” Drusa replied, pulling back and smiling again.

        “Really?” Joan asked sharply. Drusa’s brows rose over her warm brown eyes.

        “Yeah. Still pretty safe there, because the raiders are afraid of pissing off any Legion remnants, but it’s silent out there. That’s the entire reason we came up north, we heard there were some tribes living in Zion now.”

        Joan breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t been worried about the Legion, but the news that they had indeed faded away—as both Joshua and Ulysses had predicted—was most welcome, especially given the terrible news she’d been given earlier. She could have hugged Drusa, but resisted the urge.

        “Is that why you’re here?” Drusa leaned close, speaking conspiratorially again. Joan was on the verge of answering when she caught the scent of something sweet. For the past several weeks the smell of any food violently twisted her stomach, but this smelled heavenly, even though she usually loathed sweet things. Her stomach rumbled, her mouth watering at the sugary scent as she looked around for the source of it.

        “Oh, I don’t want to keep you.” Drusa interrupted her thoughts. Joan turned her head back to face her, jerking out of her confectionary induced reverie.

        “Sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m just… tired today. Excuse me.”

        “Sure, no problem. I’m sure this won’t be the last time we cross paths,” Drusa replied with a hospitable smile. She walked away from Joan with a wave, leaving her to hunt for the source of the delicious smell.

        After a moment, Joan spotted a mercenary, perched on the lip of one of the carts. He had a narrow box in one hand and was absent-mindedly shoveling a small cake into his mouth with the other while he stared out over the river. Joan approached him.

        “What is that?” she asked. He paused to swallow before holding up the box, facing the label out toward her.

        “Ya never had Fancy Lads?” he asked, digging into the box and plucking one out. He offered it to her.

        “I’ve seen them around, but I’ve never had one before,” she said, accepting it. The sponge cake was sticky against the pads of her fingertips as she inspected it. The mercenary arched his eyebrows at her.

        “What, ya too good for prewar food?” he asked. Joan pursed her lips at him and he thrust his free hand up innocently.

        “You’re too well dressed to be a tribal. I’d expect them to have never had a Fancy Lads cake, but you look civilized. Look like you practically came off the New Vegas Strip, to be honest.”

        Joan shoved the cake in her mouth in one bite. It was cloyingly sweet, but better than answering him. As soon as she was done chewing, a plasticky chemical taste filled her mouth. It was disgusting and immediately made her want another one.

        She was oblivious as Joshua approached them, a sack dangling from his weathered hand. He watched Joan with silent amusement as she asked the mercenary for another cake.

        “No way, sweetheart. You want some, you can buy your own.”

        Joan patted down the inside of her suit jacket before frowning; the only thing she had on her that even remotely resembled currency was the Platinum Chip, nestled deep in her skirt pocket. She had brought a fair amount of caps with her to Zion, but they were all stashed in her pack, which Joshua had long taken from her. She was about to turn from him when Joshua approached them.

        “I’ll take a box, please,” he said. The mercenary shrugged and pointed toward a cart piled high with prewar food. Joshua immediately strode over to it and hunted through the stack until he fished out a few boxes of the small, sugary cakes. Joan blushed hot and pink again as she dashed to his side.

        “You don’t have to,” she said quickly. An erratic part of her wanted to slap the boxes out of his hands to stop him.

        Joshua turned away from her and produced a handful of caps from his pocket before handing them to the tired and bored looking trader standing beside the cart.

        “I’m not going to turn down the first food I’ve seen you eat willingly,” he said lightly, tucking the boxes of snack cakes into the sack he was carrying. “And they’re not too bad. I’ve had them before, back in New Canaan.”

        Joan arched her eyebrows at Joshua. It was difficult to imagine him eating something as childish and mundane as a snack cake. It occurred to her that, despite the depth of her feelings for him, she didn’t actually know all that much about his life, aside from the fact that he had once been Caesar’s first Legate. The two set off from the caravan, bidding them goodbye and to have a safe trip as the sun began to set, turning the sky a vivid pink.

        “What was it like, in New Canaan?” she asked. Even after a few months she still felt a small surge of apprehension to ask him questions without first seeking his permission. Joshua was silent for a while as they continued walking before he finally spoke, his voice distant.

        “It was peaceful. The people were good and gentle and kind. There were never very many of us, but it made our community that much tighter… We were a family.”

        The last halo of dying sunlight disappeared behind a jagged red spire of rock as he turned his head to look down at her.

        “What about you? You told me that you were shot in the head, but you’ve never mentioned anything about your life before that. What was it like when you were growing up?” he asked.

        Joan twisted her face back to the road. No one had ever really asked about her life before Benny shot her. She idly twisted one of the buttons on her cuff.

        “I don’t remember any of it,” she said. “The last thing I remember is being on my knees with a gun to my head.”

        “You don’t remember _anything_?” Joshua reiterated, coming to a stop and staring at her. Joan looked away.

        “It’s not like it’s a big deal. Whatever I was doing before couldn’t have been as good as…” she trailed off. She had nearly compared it to her current life, but she wasn’t really living her current life anymore, was she? Not the one that she had come to think of as her own: leader of New Vegas, benefactor of the Followers of the Apocalypse, eradicator of Caesar’s Legion. She hesitated before proceeding.

        “It must not have been very important, if I don’t remember it. I don’t miss it.”

        Joshua began to walk again, his pale blue eyes noticeably warmer. Joan frowned. He must have misunderstood her words as her accepting this situation, which she very much had not. However, things had been nicer between them than they had been in months; she did not bother to correct him.

        “Then I think we understand each other,” he said after some time, as they neared the camp again. “I don’t miss my old life either.”

***

        The sun had disappeared beyond the horizon by the time Drusa and her caravan decided to finally exit Zion; the sky was fat with constellations as they emerged from the old tunnel that led them outside of the park.

        The lands that lay on the other side were foreign to most of the caravan, but Drusa had come to know them well—as soon as her fellow caravanners had tucked in the for the night, she stole out of her sleeping bag and crept into the wilderness. Though she had been up since dawn, she was alert and awake, her stomach buzzing with frenetic joy.

        She walked for nearly an hour before she finally saw a faint flicker of fire in the distance; she sped up, swelling with giddy excitement, her boots thumping across the compacted dirt as she made her way toward it.

        It was good to make noise; she didn’t want to accidentally startle her master.

        She slowed when she reached the edge of the fire lit clearing, intentionally kicking her heels against the ground to make further noise to announce her presence.

        Sitting in front of the fire was a man; his back was to her, and she could see the faint glow of the firelight through the narrow cartilage of his ears. The silhouette of his shoulders was broadened with the football pads that adorned them, each makeshift pauldron marked with crimson slashes in the shape of an X.

        She took a few steps toward him, a broad smile growing on her face.

        “It’s been a few days, Drusa,” the man said to her; his voice was monotonous and silky, and it sent a thrill through Drusa’s chest, reaching all the way down to her fingertips.

        “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting, my Lord,” she said, crossing the clearing to join his side before kneeling down in front of him, bowing her head respectfully. She heard him make a small noise that almost sounded like a boyish laugh, pure and innocent.

        “It’s worth the wait if you found what I’m looking for,” he said. Drusa tilted her eyes up to look at him, her heart racing against her ribcage.

        “I did,” she said breathlessly, her lips moistened and tingly. “I saw her today. Her _and_ the Burned Man.”

        She faltered for a moment at the look on the man’s face; though his expression had barely shifted, she could feel the displeasure radiating off of him.

        “ _Joshua Graham_ ,” Drusa quickly corrected herself. “And the Courier. It was them, there was no mistaking it. He’s burned from head to toe… and the Courier is just as you described her. Short, scrawny, and she still wears that suit and hat. It’s her, I guarantee it.”

        Vulpes Inculta tilted his head back, allowing a small smile to pass across his lips as his pale blue eyes drifted shut with fulfillment.

        “After all these months… I’ve finally found you, Joan.”


	13. I See You

Chapter 13: I See You

_I’m alone with you, you’re alone with me; I see you in the dark, at the dawn of something new_

        Joan was lying flat on her back inside the Angel Cave. She had just finished bathing in the large basin that Joshua had brought up for her. It was yet another one of the little rituals they had fallen into: trusting her with privacy, he would politely step out, leaving her to her own devices as she washed herself. The handcuffs had been put away for a few weeks now.

        “Fucking… fuck,” she grunted, her brows mashed together with frustration. Her skirt was straining against the small of her back as she sucked in her belly as hard as she could—it was becoming rapidly apparent that her skirt was no longer going to zip shut. She couldn’t even tug the zipper up halfway. She rolled onto her side and her stomach protruded across the floor in front of her. She squeezed her eyes shut as the abrupt urge to sob nearly overwhelmed her.

        Her dress shirt hadn’t been able to button across the midsection for almost two weeks now, but it had been easy enough to obscure under her suit jacket. There was no helping this, however. Her chin trembled, but she swallowed the tears back, arching her back off the floor and struggling to attempt to zip her skirt up once again. The corners of her eyes were wet and her stomach began to roll with nausea from her efforts.

        A small cough from the entrance of the chamber interrupted her and Joan’s face immediately shifted brilliantly red. She scrambled off her back and sprang to her feet, her wet hair hanging over her face. It was longer than it had ever been since she’d been shot in the head; the ends cascaded past her shoulders, leaving damp spots across her shoulder blades.

        “Fuck!” she barked, glaring hatefully at Joshua. He frowned at her.

        “We need to find you something better to wear,” he stated. Joan was tugging up the open waistband of her skirt over her belly, still glaring hotly at him as she protectively clenched the panels of her suit jacket together.

        “ _No_ ,” she snarled, hugging her suit even more tightly to herself.

        Her suit was her beloved status. She had worn it ever since she had dispatched Robert House, taking his role as leader of the city of New Vegas and commandeering his army of robots. Her chin crinkled to think of Yes Man. What were they doing without her? Did he miss her as much as she missed him? No news of the Mojave had reached her; she prayed that things were still running smoothly in her absence. She had to trust in Yes Man, she decided. She had left him with instructions to look after the Mojave, and he was unable to refuse her. It was at least a small comfort to know that the Legion had faded away and was unable to cause further trouble.

        Joshua’s eyes narrowed; it was an expression she had come to know well when he was already fed up with her, before they had even begun arguing.

        “This isn’t up for discussion,” he said with finality. “Your clothes don’t fit, you need new ones. Don’t fight me on this.”

        Joan looked down at her suit, her brows furrowed together. She hadn’t anticipated staying in Zion nearly as long as she had—the only other clothing she had packed was a spare suit identical to the one she was currently wearing. Her lower lip jutted out before her expression hardened and she glared at Joshua again.

        “I’ll sit in here fucking naked if I have to.”

        She wasn’t entirely sure why she was spoiling so hard for a fight with him; things had been much more amicable since the day he had taken her to the caravan and bought her the Fancy Lads snack cakes. He no longer handcuffed her to the ammunition workbench, and he was content to let her wander on her own from time to time, citing that time spent in the sunlight would be good for her. Waking Cloud and Passing Dawn had joined her occasionally during those outings. They mostly discussed pregnancy and motherhood, which annoyed—and secretly terrified—Joan, but it was preferable to being cooped up in the Dead Horse’s camp.

        Joshua huffed at her before twisting to leave, his blue eyes sharp with exasperation.

        “Fine, do what you like,” he snapped, taking off and leaving her. Joan slid against the side of the basin until she fell to the ground, sitting hunched over her knees. They didn’t draw up as far as they used to, with her enormous kickball of a stomach in the way now. She glared at nothing, seething with anger and humiliation.

        She was too proud to admit that she felt _fat_ , which was incredibly petty, and by far the least of her concerns right now. It was easier to be haughty and vain than to admit to the icy horror that had begun to course through her veins. She was many months along now, just past the halfway mark of the pregnancy. She knew it wouldn’t be long before she would be giving birth. She didn’t know anything at all about birth, other than that it apparently hurt a great deal, and that sometimes women died in the middle of it. She buried her face in her arms, her small shoulders heaving and trembling. Her mood had vacillated from anger to terror to misery in the blink of an eye and she sat shivering and biting her lip, holding back tears.

***

        Joshua Graham walked quickly out of the Angel Cave, making a beeline for the edge of the water. He needed to be away from the cave, away from the camp, away from _her_.

        The anger and tension that had existed between them had finally dissipated over the last few weeks, and it had come as no small breath of relief to Joshua. He wasn’t averse to taking the role of leadership and compelling people to do what he needed them to do, but Joan was a rather unique case. His footfalls were heavy and distracted as he made his way up the Eastern Virgin, contemplating his situation.

        Though he had certainly never intended for this to happen, he was happy to take responsibility for it. He did not wish to lord authority over Joan; she wasn’t some slave that had to be wrangled into submission and subjugated. For better or worse, she was the mother of his child. He couldn’t say she would have ever been his _first choice_ to bear his children—not that he’d given it much thought; after the severity of his burns he had no longer believed he was even capable of producing fertile seed—but this was where they were, and he was determined to make the best of it.

        Joan was young, barely more than a child herself, he thought; she would learn and she would grow to love the tiny life she carried inside her as much as he did. As soon as Waking Cloud had confirmed it, he’d been instantly enamored: every single day he wanted to run his hands over the growing swell of her belly, to touch it, to feel close to what was inside.

        Joan’s forbidding glares and stiff, prickly nature had made even Joshua wary to act on those urges.

        She made no mystery of her bleak outlook on the situation, and Joshua wasn’t sure how to reach out to her, so he had elected to mention it only when necessary. Still, as the time drew nearer, he began to consider the future. The valley still sweltered with summer heat, but it wouldn’t be long before winter was upon them. Winter, and a small, delicate baby—a son, he prayed.

_What would happen then_? His feet carried him through the valley, without direction. He couldn’t stomach the thought of Joan being frigidly cold to his child; he wouldn’t allow it, and he’d sooner raise his child by himself than risk her being cruel to him.

        But a child needed the benefits of both parents: the firm, guiding hand of a father, and the nurturing warmth of a mother. Despite everything, he would prefer it if Joan _did_ stay by his side. The world was a cruel, bleak place, and family was the only thing one could truly depend on. He wanted only the best for his child. If he could bring a life into this world—dark and terrifying as it was—and raise him to be better, smarter, kinder, wiser; than he had been… he felt as though that would be a fine beginning to making up for the years that he had spent in the darkness.

        He had been staring idly at the ground as he walked through the valley, and the sound of hooves drew his attention upward; before him was a caravan, the same one that had passed through a month or so ago. He considered it for a moment before hastening his footsteps and approaching it.

        A saying he had heard frequently when he was just a boy had surfaced in his mind: _if mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy_. Crudely put, but he was beginning to see the truth in those words now. It wasn’t just for his own peace of mind either—Joan had begun to grow on him. He had been annoyed with her at first, incredulous of her seemingly unsquashable infatuation with him, but she had revealed several admirable qualities to him as well. Joshua knew he wasn’t the easiest person to deal with sometimes—his time spent with Daniel had shown him that much, nevermind his decades of service to Edward—but she had taken everything he had thrown at her.

        She piqued his ire like no one else had in the last five years—he had already prayed many times for absolution for the things he had done to hurt her, but she always endured. Not just _endured_ ; she had come back to him each time, clear forgiveness in her dark brown eyes. Even today, he could see that she held no real malice in her heart for him. Her burned—and then broken—finger, how he had hurt her in his blind lust during the night they had spent together, how he had handcuffed her so tightly that her delicate wrists and ankles had chafed miserably—she didn’t seem to care at all. She minded in the moment of course, but as soon as he regained control of himself, she was always delighted to have him again. She alone saw through the coarser aspects of his nature and through to the real him; she had no issue reading his intentions and judging him accordingly. She was tough, even with her numerous disadvantages.

        Like it or not, with the upcoming arrival of their child, their lives were intertwined now. He had stumbled and fallen from the path many times, but he wanted to serve his new family well, to be the man that they needed him to be. He would carry the torch that would illuminate their journey through the darkness.

        “Where’s your little friend this time?”

        The woman that had greeted them last time approached Joshua again, her square face sunny and bright. She had traded her long cargo pants for shorts in the summer heat, but looked otherwise the same.

        “It’s just me today,” Joshua said. He quite enjoyed being around caravans—he had always had a gift for trading with them—but this woman grated on him. She was friendly enough, but she was a little too nosy, too keen, too curious. He hadn’t appreciated her quip about the difference in age between himself and Joan either.

        She didn’t seem to be snubbed at all by his short reply; she stood back and allowed him to pass by her without further comment.

        A few of the wagons were piled high with clothes, and Joshua made his way to them. He could have asked one of the Sorrows to stitch together new clothing for Joan, but the idea was discarded without consideration: the tiny scraps of fur and fabric were fine for tribals, but inappropriate for someone like her. Joan dressed as conservatively as he did, and Joshua knew she’d be mortified to wear anything so revealing—not to mention that the thought of the mother of his child traipsing around in so little didn’t sit well with him either. No, she was like him, and thus was far better suited to prewar style clothing, like he preferred.

        He spent several minutes rifling through one of the carts, stacked high with women’s apparel. Trousers were out of the question as well—not only would they fail to accommodate her rapidly growing stomach, he had never seen Joan wear anything but skirts. He had thought it was terribly impractical of her when they first met, but with the turn their lives had taken, it was refreshing to meet a woman that held the same values as he did. Many, perhaps even most, women today—at least outside of places like New Canaan—dressed as men did, with long pants and boots and leathers, shirking their femininity. Joan was much more traditional, which was surprising, given the role that she had established for herself on the New Vegas Strip, as well as her fearless attitude towards nature. Joshua had come to enjoy that about her. Despite her underdeveloped figure, she carried herself like a woman. It only made sense for her to dress like one.

        With that in mind, Joshua tossed aside anything that wasn’t a dress, which significantly narrowed his selection. She was also quite petite, even by women’s standards, which further reduced his selection. In the end he was left with only two dresses that fit his criteria: small enough to not completely hang off of Joan’s minute frame, yet large enough for her to continue to wear it throughout the rest of the pregnancy.

        Joshua deliberated for a moment before making his decision. He had one of the traders wrap the dress in paper, paying an extra cap for him to lace it up neatly with a small twine bow. He thanked them and set off, returning to the Dead Horse’s camp.

***

        Joan wasn’t sure how long she sat in the Angel Cave, hunched and shuddering. Eventually soft footfalls approached the chamber, and she shoved her glasses up over her forehead so that she could swipe at her reddened eyes.

        As expected, Joshua entered the chamber. He had a parcel in his hand and was watching her cautiously. She looked away from him, glowing red from her earlier outburst.

        He approached her as one might approach a skittish calf: with tentative deliberation, offering one bandaged hand out to her. Within it was a package. Joan looked up at him for a moment before accepting it.

        “What is it?” she asked hoarsely, holding the unopened parcel in her lap. For the first time Joshua looked slightly sheepish, turning his head and clearing his throat.

        “The caravans came by again today,” he said. “I hope you like it.”

        Joan tentatively pulled the tail of the twine bow to open the paper package, and a long dress spilled out. Her brows shot over the rim of her sunglasses, and she pulled it out to hold it up so that she could see it better.

        It was shapeless but flowing, with long sleeves to suit the cooling temperatures that were soon to come. She pulled herself up to her feet—Joshua guided her elbow as she stood—and held it up to herself. It was much longer than her pencil skirt, the hem hovering around her mid calf. It was nothing at all like her usual attire, but she could see that Joshua had kept her in mind: like her suit, it was entirely black, save for the stiffly starched white collar and cuffs. A smile bloomed across her face that he had considered not just what would serve the parasitic life growing within her, but her personal taste and preferences. She looked up at him, her face glowing with gratitude.

        “Thank you,” she said. Joshua had looked nearly nervous as she appraised it and his eyes immediately lost their keen edge, the wrinkles around them scrunching up as he smiled back at her.

        “I pray that it fits you, as small as you are. But it should serve you well enough until you give birth and can return to wearing what you like,” he said. Joan flushed at the thought before turning away from him and folding the dress, draping it across the lip of the basin. Her fingers tugged anxiously at the buttons at her throat.

        Her suit meant everything to her. It felt like giving up a piece of herself to take it off and be separated from it. But Joshua had an undeniable point. It no longer fit over the engorged swell of her belly, and that wasn’t going to change anytime soon. She looked down at the dress and her expression softened.

        He had thought of her.

        She exhaled slowly and steadily before unbuttoning her dress shirt and shrugging out of her suit jacket. Joshua stood beside her as she undressed down to the pale grey undergarments she wore beneath her clothes. A faint hint of redness colored her cheeks to be nearly naked in front of him—especially with how obscenely her stomach protruded now—but she brushed it away as she picked up the dress and pulled it over her head. It had a long zip closure in the back, and she was just reaching over her shoulder to access it when she felt Joshua’s broad fingertips on the small of her back.

        “Here. Let me,” he said quietly. She brushed her hair aside and stood with her head bent forward as he zipped the dress up, patting the zipper with finality as soon as he finished. The warmth in Joan’s cheeks returned with force, as well as the familiar buzzing sensation in her navel.

        “Thank you,” she said again. Mindlessly she scrubbed her thumb against the thick scarring of her forefinger. “I can pay you whatever the dress was worth—”

        “I won’t accept,” Joshua interrupted her; she turned around, looking up at him as he continued. “I did it because I wanted to.”

        Joan’s smile broadened and she smoothed her hands down the front of the dress, patting out a few wrinkles from where it had been tucked into the parcel.

        “It’s perfect,” she said. Gentle warmth was dancing behind Joshua’s eyes as they traveled up and down, appraising her. Approval was apparent on his face; seized with brief girlish desire, Joan spun around for him, letting him see the dress from every angle.

        “I have to admit, it’s comfortable,” she conceded. And it was— it hung loosely off her body, with no form or structure to hinder her expanding midsection. She had begun to fill out in other areas too: her thighs rubbed against each other now as she walked, and her upper arms had begun to strain uncomfortably against the narrow sleeves of her tailored dress shirt. She looked down at it, where it was lying on the floor. Tenderly she gathered it up before folding it, working with slow and deliberate focus. A shadow of sorrow passed over her face as she approached one of the crates lining the room.

_Soon_ , she promised herself silently as she packed her suit away into it, tucking it neatly and affectionately among a few spare bins of casings.

_This isn’t forever_.

        “It looks good on you,” Joshua said. Joan flushed and turned back to him, a smile spreading across her face again. The cazadors within her had stirred to life, causing an erratic and fluttery sensation in her belly. She was about to speak again when the flutters spiked uncomfortably and she leaned over, her hands darting to her stomach. She grimaced at the suddenly very tangible spasm of activity in her belly. Joshua was immediately by her side, looking down at her with concern.

        “What is it?” he asked, grasping her shoulder with a firm hand. Joan took a shaky breath before realization pierced through the panic at the strange sensation.

        “It’s… I think it’s moving,” she murmured, staring down at her belly with her eyebrows arched high over her sunglasses. Waking Cloud had described this sensation to her in detail that she’d found to be nauseatingly explicit during one of their walks. The movement happened again and Joan flinched. Joshua’s eyes brightened and he immediately lowered his hand from her shoulder to her navel, cupping her stomach. His palm was warm against her.

        “I don’t feel anything,” he said, sounding so profoundly disappointed that Joan couldn’t stifle a small, brittle laugh.

        “That was—” she was on the threshold of telling him how bizarre it felt when another jerky movement thrashed around inside her. Joshua reacted to it immediately, pressing his hand more firmly against her stomach and bending down as though he thought he’d be able to hear what was going on inside. Joan stood stiffly, unsure of what to do with this fresh wave of attention from him.

        “ _Marvelous are thy works_ ,” Joshua murmured, more to the bump in her belly than to Joan. They stood for a while longer, his hand warm against her as they waited for more of the curious movements. Joshua’s eyes flashed with excitement each time he felt the brush of a tiny elbow or a miniscule foot. Eventually the sensations faded and they stood in silence with each other.

        The entire experience had been unsettling. Joan wasn’t sure what to say—she was certain anything that might come out of her mouth would offend Joshua, and sever the fragile thread of harmony between them.


	14. I'll Take the Rain

Chapter 14: I’ll Take the Rain

_The sun shines down, and you came around_

        A couple weeks had passed since Joshua gifted Joan her new dress, and she was wearing it now, sitting outside in the camp and soaking up the warmth of the sun. The temperature had begun to decline, and it was fairly cool outside, even in the daylight. She sat close to the large fire that dominated the center of the camp for further warmth, her bible in one hand, the other draped mindlessly over her stomach, which had expanded outward even further, thrust in front of her as though she was smuggling a melon under her dress. Her knees were spread wide and unladylike to accommodate it.

        Joshua was busy with the Dead Horses. Joan was trying to read her bible, but found her eyes wandering to him more often than they were actually reading the words in front of her. She hadn’t bothered turning the page in nearly half an hour.

        From across the camp she could see Joshua Graham hefting himself up on a tree branch before slowly lowering himself again, and then repeating the process. She wasn’t entirely sure how old he was—surely he couldn’t be much younger than Caesar had been, or perhaps he was even older—but he was keeping up with the men that were less than half his age with ease. Indeed, he set the pace for their exercises, pushing them hard. She could hear him delivering instructions to them, but his words were lost on her as she gazed at the bandaged muscles in his forearms as they tensed with his weight. That wasn’t all that she could see: Joshua had removed his tactical vest to exercise, and under the sturdy fabric of his woven shirt, she could make out the dip between his shoulder blades. She shifted her legs uncomfortably.

        Joan was still staring at him when a harsh burst of gunfire finally broke her reverie. She jerked her head, looking out over the Eastern Virgin with alarm before glancing back at Joshua. He had reacted immediately; his tactical vest was already back around his chest, his hand diving for the pistol at his hip. Joan sought to do the same before cursing—he had long ago taken her sniper rifle from her, tucking it with her Pipboy and Med-X, as well as the rifle she had retrieved from Randall Clark’s remains. She was hauling herself unsteadily to her feet as yet another swell of gunfire interrupted the peace of the valley.

        “You need to get inside,” Joshua ordered, arriving by her side.

        “What’s going on?” she asked; he had seized her by the elbow and was already dragging her toward the mouth of the Angel Cave.

        “I don’t know. A few weeks ago scouts reported seeing some of the 80s tribe outside the valley—they must have seen the caravans coming through again and taken interest. I pray it’s just them; now go on, get inside!”

        He gave her a shove and Joan tripped forward, barely catching herself from stumbling. Waking Cloud and Passing Dawn appeared, catching Joan’s arms and helping her right herself. Joshua had already taken off, noisily kicking up water as he dashed through the Eastern Virgin. Joan twisted her head to glance back at him but he was already disappearing around the bend of the cove.

        “Do not fret,” Waking Cloud reassured her, leading Joan inside the cave. “Things have been very peaceful the past few months, but this was not uncommon before. This is not anything Joshua and the men cannot handle.”

        It had all transpired so fast, Joan was still processing what was happening. She tugged her elbow out of Waking Cloud’s hand.

        “I should get out there, then,” she said, turning to exit the cave. Passing Dawn caught her wrist, looking at her with concern.

        “No! Your belly, you need to stay here, where it is safe,” she said. Joan looked at her with blank confusion.

_Right_ , she thought numbly, looking down at herself. She had helped Joshua the moonless night that they had sprung their attack on the White Legs; it felt wrong to sit idly by while he left the camp to defend them. She bit her lip, worrying it between her teeth as Waking Cloud and Passing Dawn led her to the small fire within the cave, sitting her down in front of it and taking seats on either side of her.

        “It takes great strength to be the wife of a man like that,” Waking Cloud said. Joan flustered and looked down at the ground, her face red.

        “I—I’m not—”

        “I know you are not. But you are fulfilling the same role now, yes? You must be strong; for him, for yourself, and for your baby. Place your trust in God’s hands now. He has always looked over us, especially Joshua Graham,” Waking Cloud continued. Joan had begun to pick at the cuff of her sleeve; Waking Cloud gently placed her hand over her own, stilling her fidgeting.

        Joan ground her teeth instead, looking around restlessly. Waking Cloud had misunderstood her frayed nerves.

        “I’m used to going out and helping, being _useful_ ,” she spat, bouncing her knee. Passing Dawn looked at her sympathetically.

        “It is hard, I know,” she said, holding one hand up and gazing at it ruefully while cupping her enormous stomach with the other. “We are good warriors. Joshua does not listen, but we are. It is hard, to sit and do nothing.”

        Joan could detect a faint note of bitterness in her voice—she turned to her, happy that someone seemed to finally understand how she felt.

        “So why are we just sitting here then?” she said, seized with the urge to act. “You have those… those club things, right? Where are they? I could go get a gun—”

        “ _No_ ,” Waking Cloud cut her off, placing her hand firmly on Joan’s shoulder. She twisted Joan around and looked sternly into her eyes.

        “Have faith in God, Joan. Do you think that I am not nervous? My husband was killed when I was unable to be by his side, to protect him. I know this all too well. But I cannot allow you to endanger yourself and Passing Dawn, not as you both are. If we are forced to act, then we will. But until then, we should listen to Joshua. He has taken care of us for a long time now; we are safe in his hands.”

        Joan glared at Waking Cloud, but she was unfazed by it, staring steadily back at her. Joan sagged back against the log she was propped against and crossed her arms.

        “This is such fucking bullshit,” she muttered. Waking Cloud and Passing Dawn laughed.

        “You get used to it,” Passing Dawn said. Joan looked at her, frowning.

        “I don’t want to get used to it,” she said. Passing Dawn shrugged at her.

        “Waking Cloud is right. We cannot afford to get hurt,” she said. The bitterness had left her voice, and she sounded as serene as she usually did. She reached out and stroked Joan’s stomach; Joan stiffened, narrowing her eyes at her. She didn’t like being touched under most circumstances, let alone when she was agitated. She swatted her hand away and Passing Dawn politely withdrew, unoffended.

        Joan crossed her arms again before crossing her ankles as well, for extra measure. Quickly she uncrossed them, the swelling that had developed in them making her feet uncomfortable. She stared into the fire instead, nervousness knotting into her stomach and replacing her annoyance. She didn’t want Joshua to get hurt either. She knew he was capable, but dark scenarios rapidly flashed across her mind, filling her with dread. In spite of everything that had transpired between them, she couldn’t bear the thought of something happening to him. Highly unlikely, given everything she had heard—and seen with her own two eyes—of him, but it was still terrible to even contemplate. Without thinking, she ran her hand over her stomach, the scarred flesh of her forefinger catching the small bump where her belly button had begun to protrude.

        As she sat, a stream of other women entered the cave, and Waking Cloud hopped to her feet.

        “Well, there are many chores to be done, and sitting and waiting will accomplish none of them,” she said. Passing Dawn also stood, leaving Joan alone on the floor. The rest of the Sorrows—and a scattering of female Dead Horses—immediately set to work. Two of them were hauling the carved carcass of a fattened bighorner into the cave as others prepared a space for it to be further butchered. A delicate brown hand wrapped around Joan’s elbow, pulling her to her feet.

        “Sorry,” Joan apologized, “I’ll get out of the way.”

        Waking Cloud looked down at her, the corners of her lips pulled up into a dry sort of smile.

        “So you can sit and do nothing? That is not productive. You want to do something, so come and help.”

        The expression slid off of Joan’s face and she faltered.

        “I’m not… I don’t really know how to do anyth—”

        “Nonsense,” Waking Cloud said, marching Joan to one of the long tables where a line of Sorrows were chopping up vegetables. Joan stood for a moment, staring blankly at the table in front of her before Passing Dawn approached, sliding the carved wooden handle of a knife into her hand.

        “I will teach you,” she said, taking a place beside Joan. Waking Cloud nodded in satisfaction before walking away to help break down the enormous rack of bighorner meat.

        The knife felt heavy and awkward in Joan’s hand—nothing at all like the small and speedy combat knife that had once been strapped to her thigh.

        “Here, hold it like this,” Passing Dawn said, wrapping her tanned hand around Joan’s. She pinched Joan’s thumb and forefinger around the base of the blade before mimicking a cutting motion, leaning awkwardly around Joan with her enormous belly in the way. It was much larger than Joan’s—Joan didn’t even think a human torso could expand so much, at least not without popping.

        Passing Dawn released Joan’s hand, and Joan continued to hold the knife as she’d instructed; Passing Dawn plucked a pepper from the enormous woven basket of vegetables in front of them and placed it in front of her.

        “Cut it in half and scoop out the seeds, it is very easy,” she said. Joan obeyed, following her instructions and setting to work. Passing Dawn withdrew a handful of vegetables for herself before speaking again.

        “I did not know how to do these things either. Not until Joshua told us that it was safer for us to do these kinds of chores. But I did learn, and you can too,” she said. Joan glanced at her hands. They were moving lightning fast—in the time it had taken Joan to split one pepper evenly down the length of it, Passing Dawn had already gutted and chopped two peppers, and was moving on to the next. Joan moved her eyes back to her own hands, trying to speed up her pace.

        “You’re with the tribe from Dead Horse Point, aren’t you?” Joan asked. Though she liked Passing Dawn, she’d never spoken to her about much beyond Joshua or pregnancy. Passing Dawn paused her knife work to proudly pat one of the dark tattoos that graced her torso.

        “Yes, I am. I have scouted, I have tracked, and I have fought very bravely in battle.”

        “So… why are you in here, instead of out there?” Joan asked curiously. Most of the women in the camp were of the Sorrows tribe, and it made sense to Joan that they would be better suited to domestic tasks like this, having never experienced the brutal reality of battle before. From what she knew of the Dead Horses though, they had all been capable warriors. Even when she’d first arrived in Zion, she recalled seeing female Dead Horse warriors sparring with each other in the camp.

        Passing Dawn sighed.

        “Joshua Graham said that fighting men was too dangerous for women,” she said before lowering her voice in a parody of Joshua’s. “ _Men are bigger and faster and stronger than women. You have fought well, but it is shameful for a woman to risk her precious life when a man can go out and fight instead. This is your place_.”

        Joan’s hand stilled, the knife halfway through the pepper in front of her. On one hand, it felt wrong for Joshua to tell a woman that she couldn’t do something that she had been doing just fine for her entire life; on the other hand, Joshua had an undeniable point about men being stronger than women, especially when those women were defending themselves with things like war clubs or Yao Guai fists.

        “So why doesn’t he train you how to use guns then?” Joan asked, looking up at Passing Dawn. “You know the old saying? _God created man, but Sam Colt made them equal_. I wouldn’t take a knife to a gunfight, but even _I_ can defend myself against anything I need to, so long as I have the right tool.”

        Passing Dawn had paused as well, staring at Joan with her eyebrows arched, causing the tattoos on her forehead to wrinkle.

        “I had not thought of it that way. My child started growing not long after Joshua told us that we needed to stay in the camp and work, so I just… did as he said. Thank you Joan. I will bring this up to him.”

        A small smile crossed Joan’s face at the renewed light that radiated from behind Passing Dawn’s eyes, and she began cutting her pepper again, finally finishing it before withdrawing another from the basket.

        A few hours passed, the women of the camp passing the time easily while preparing dinner, trading stories and laughter. Joan fell into an easy groove with them, and found that she rather enjoyed being a part of the pack, instead of being isolated in the cave, or attached to Joshua’s hip. Her knife work was poor and sloppy, but Passing Dawn assured her that with some practice, she could be as good as any of the other women.

        After some time, a shadow passed in front of the mouth of the cave, causing all the women inside to jerk their heads up and stare at the silhouette. It was one of the Dead Horse warriors, grinning and triumphant.

        “Hoy! Everything is fine!” His voice boomed into the cavern and it was as if a dam had burst: most of the women dropped what they were doing and stampeded outside toward the exuberant voices that could now be heard emanating from the camp. Joan finished wiping down one of the knives she had been washing in a basin before placing it neatly with the others.

        “See? What did I tell you?” Waking Cloud said, looking downright smug. Passing Dawn had been among the first to exit the cave, charging for the arms of her husband, Tracks-Rain, a Dead Horse scout. Joan chuckled before scanning the cove outside. She saw no sign of Joshua.

        “I am going to go and see if anyone needs care,” Waking Cloud said, departing from the cave as the other women had. Joan bade her goodbye before wandering toward the fire in the center of the room. An enormous slab of bighorner meat was suspended above it, casting droplets of fat into the flames; she watched as they popped and sizzled, sending up tiny tendrils of black smoke.

        Joan wanted to see Joshua, but it didn’t feel like it was her place to run out with the other women, who were eager to check on their husbands and sons. Joan ran the tip of her thumb over her scarred forefinger.

        A few moments later heeled footsteps came padding across the sand of the cove, and she spun around.

        Joshua was standing in the mouth of the cave. He smelled smoky, and there was a trail of dried blood smeared across the bandages on his cheek.

        “Are you alright?” he asked. Joan stared at him before slowly closing the distance between them, her bare feet making soft shuffling noises across the stone floor. She stopped just shy of him, looking up at his face. He was watching her with curiosity before his eyes widened—she had thrown her arms around his waist, burying her face into the scratchy fabric of his SLCPD vest.

        “You didn’t need to worry about me, I’m fine,” he said, looking down at her with his arms spread stiffly, surprised at her reaction. “It was a group of 80s after all. None of the men were injured, and we’ve already taken care of the corpses.”

        “I was worried about you,” Joan said, her voice muffled against him. There was a brief pause before Joshua spoke again, his voice low and tender.

        “I needed to make sure you were safe.”

        Slowly, he lowered his arms around her narrow shoulders, pulling her close. Joan mashed her face harder into his vest, breathing in the smoky and dusty scent of him, relieved that he had returned to her.


	15. Come As You Are

Chapter 15: Come As You Are

_Come doused in mud, soaked in bleach—as I want you to be_

        The day following the attack, Joshua Graham was seated at his work table within the Angel Cave, two piles of guns spread out on the table in front of him. One was disheveled, the firearms dirty and battered; the other was pristine, the pistols lined up neatly, clean and gleaming. In his hands was the frame of the pistol he was currently working on; it was completely disassembled, and he was wiping down the interior with a rag that had been smudged with oil. He was consumed entirely with his task, at least as far as Joan could see.

        Joan was seated opposite him on her own cinderblock seat. In her hands was her bible, but—much like the previous day—she found herself gazing more at Joshua than the book in front of her. Sitting in such close proximity to him, she bothered to feign turning a page every so often, lest he notice her eyes darting back and forth from the thin and yellowed pages to his hands.

        Anyone would have been fascinated to watch him, she justified to herself as she studied the minute ripple of his knuckles as he worked into the fine grooves inside the barrel. He worked with an almost automaton-like efficiency, processing pistol after pistol in short order before depositing them onto the tidy pile in front of him. She finally tore her eyes away from his hands—next they fell onto his vest, or, to be more precise, the narrow field of fabric that separated his SWAT vest from the jeans he wore. Trancelike, she watched the fabric bunch and stretch as he worked, the shirt straining against his belly each time he leaned over and retrieved a fresh gun from atop of the scattered pile. Joan crossed her legs before uncrossing them, her bible slack in her hands.

        “Stop that, you’re moving the table.”

        Joan jolted as he looked up, and her face darkened to a deep cherry when she saw the knowing look in his eyes—he had been aware of how intensely she had been staring at him. She looked away quickly and he chuckled at her before leaning back and giving pistol he had been working on a final inspection. Satisfied, he placed it down squarely on top of the others.

        “You aren’t very subtle,” he said. Joan’s blush darkened another shade and she stood, ready to swiftly exit the chamber; Joshua reached out and seized her forearm, where her Pipboy had once been.

        “Wait. You don’t have to leave,” he said. His voice was far deeper than usual, almost hoarse. The cazadors roared to life and Joan halted, the flush in her face rapidly draining south as her hands shivered with an anticipatory chill. Joan let him tug her closer, drawing her to his side of the table.

        “I can feel you watching me, you know,” he said quietly. His hand had wrapped around her own, and the blush returned to her cheeks as he guided her fingers toward him. She could feel the stiff fabric of his jeans and she jolted, realizing what exactly she was touching. The heat between her thighs flared explosively, and for a dizzying moment she thought her knees might buckle beneath her.

        She had desired Joshua, obviously. She had fantasized about moments like this nearly every evening as she lay in bed back at the Lucky 38. The night he had taken her—had cursed her with this terrible thing inside her—hadn’t been at all what she’d imagined, unlike the way he was acting now. She forced herself to look at him. His eyes were bright in the lamplight and there was no mistaking the heat behind them.

        Without warning, Joshua stood, towering over Joan. She tilted her head back to look up at him, and that seemed to be all the confirmation he needed; he pulled away from her and she flinched as he abruptly swept his arm across the table, shoving all his meticulously cleaned and oiled guns off the surface and sending them scattering across the rocky floor of the cave.

        He grabbed her arm, and before she could process what was happening, she was face down, her cheek mashed into the rough grain of the table. The roundness of her belly hung over the side and she scrambled to support herself on her feet so that the edge wouldn’t dig into it. Joshua shoved her dress up, revealing the backs of her thighs and ass before pushing it all the way up, exposing her shoulder blades to the cold cave air as well. He jerked down her grey undershorts until they fell away on their own, coming to rest around one of Joan’s swollen ankles.

        Joshua’s hands were on her immediately, running up her thighs before encircling her hips and letting the scratchy fabric of his bandages skate over her stomach. Hefting her up, he sandwiched his palms between the table and her ribs, his scarred fingers finally coming to rest over her breasts and kneading at them.

        “I noticed you’ve grown,” Joshua murmured against her ear. Furious color shot into Joan’s face and ears.

        Joan attempted to squeeze her forearms between her chest and the table to block him, but he seized them and placed them by her sides again before pressing his hands back underneath her and grasping her once more. He was right; where once had been a nearly totally flat expanse of flesh were now two small mounds. Still significantly more conservative in size than any of the women Joan knew—either on the New Vegas Strip or in the Dead Horses camp—but she doubted she would ever be mistaken for a boy again with this new development. She twisted her head, staring sullenly out at the back of the cave. She knew that men preferred women to be much more developed than she was, but she didn’t like it. Her androgynous figure felt as much a part of her identity as her suit had, if not even more so; it was as though she was an imposter in her own skin now.

        In a moment it didn’t matter—she felt Joshua pull down the collar of her dress, this time bringing his mouth to the back of her neck. He placed his teeth against her before biting down hard enough to leave indents in the flesh, and all rational thought flooded Joan’s mind; her back arched as she moaned, the muscles in her thighs flexing and jerking as his hands explored her sides and hips.

        She wasn’t very experienced with men—Joshua and Benny had been her only lovers, and only one time with each of them—but she had taken care of herself enough to know that she was fairly easy to please with the right stimulation. Yet it was as though Joshua had poured a bottle of whiskey over a fire; each brush of his lips and caress of his hands made her feel as though she was being consumed, burning alive. With her arms free once more, she didn’t try to cover herself or push Joshua away; she laced them under her head and groaned as she arched off the table again, trying to return as much of his touch as she could.

        Joshua rumbled a shuddery moan against her ear before he pulled away; she could hear the faint metal clinking of his belt buckle before a rustling as his jeans fell down past his hips and he freed himself from his garments.

        Abruptly Joan was reminded of the last time they had been together and she paled.

        “Wait.”

        Joshua halted, the head of his cock already pressing against her. She pressed her eyes closed for a moment before opening them again and craning her head to look back at him.

        “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Is it the baby?”

        “I— _no_ , it’s not that,” Joan snapped. She didn’t like referring to _it_ unless she had to, much less with such a delicate and pristine term like _baby_. It was a curse, not a child.

        Some of the color returned to her face as she continued to hesitate. It felt like admitting weakness to tell him that he had hurt her the last time they had slept together—yet she felt that if she didn’t speak up now, nothing would stop him from doing it again.

        “Just… go easy,” she said stiltedly. Joshua stared at her with his head cocked for a moment before finally grasping what she was referring to. He leaned over her, running his hands up her thighs and hips before letting them protectively cup her belly.

        “I won’t hurt you.”

        Joan looked away from him again before taking a fortifying breath and deciding to place her trust in him.

        “… Okay.”

        Joshua’s hand pulled back from her belly before circling behind her; her face reddened as it snaked between her thighs, his palm and fingers gently pressing against her and coaxing her hips to tilt upward. She had to balance on the tips of her toes before he was satisfied.

        “Now spread your legs further apart,” Joshua commanded. She did as he directed, her toes sweeping across the rocky surface of the cavern floor until he seized her by the hip and pressed his cock against her again; she groaned as he pushed into her, her toes curling with enough force that her feet ached.

        As promised, Joshua was mindful of her this time—though he pounded against her, he never struck her so deeply that she thought she would vomit with pain. Instead he steadily thrust into her with the same smoothly mechanical motion he had employed the first time, grasping the sides of her hips with his blackened fingers and digging into them with enough force to turn the flesh an agitated pink. He slowed for a moment to lean down and press into her back once more; Joan gasped as his teeth met the nape of her neck again and she clenched down on him, flooding with wetness. There was a faint tickle at the side of her throat as he chuckled against her.

        He spoke into her ear, but Joan barely registered his words, too consumed with the rough, low timber of his voice to respond. When she didn’t say anything in return, he pressed his teeth to her throat again before burying them with enough force that she jumped and shrieked in his arms. For a moment he thrust much harder and deeper into her and she tensed, expecting a hot stab of pain to strike her—when it didn’t, she sagged against the table, gasping and cursing.

        Joshua was nearly flat against her now and Joan was heaving and rasping with abandon, sweat gathering against her hairline and pooling in the small valley between her breasts. She was close to finishing—words fell out of her mouth, half formed and rambling, trying to signal to him that she was nearly there. Joshua seemed to understand her just fine; he braced his palms on either side of her head and maintained his pace, slapping his hips against her in the silence of the cave.

        It was over within a minute; Joan cried out and she squeezed down on him, the muscles in her stomach clenching and aching as she came, her fingernails scraping into the flesh of her palms. Like the first time, a pleasant sort of static filled her head and she collapsed against the table, her ribs pressing into the wood uncomfortably as her chest expanded with each shaky inhale.

        Also like last time, Joshua did not stop.

        “ _Please_ ,” she immediately whimpered, hot and red at the pathetic tone of her voice. Joshua still did not stop, but—to her immense relief—he did slow down considerably, barely pumping in and out of her. One hand released from her hip, and he brought it up to tenderly stroke at her hair, brushing away some of the sweat before placing his hand back where it had been.

        “You’ll be fine,” he assured her. For emphasis, he bent and placed his lips against her spine, placing a small kiss there. Joan willed herself to breath slower and more steadily, trying to push away the sensation of being overwhelmed. In her effort to distract herself, it occurred to her that this was the position Benny had been in the night she had sacrificed her virginity to him to attain the Platinum Chip. It was in the pocket of her dress even now, and she could feel the slight weight of it against her shoulder where the fabric was gathered and bunched up.

        She pressed her eyes closed; Joshua was nothing at all like Benny.

        She had acclimated somewhat—Joshua must have sensed this, because he sped up again, pushing further into her than he had allowed himself to earlier. Joan gritted her teeth and bore the small flashes of pain that stabbed deep within her. As if aware of the discomfort, Joshua released her hips and let his hands come to rest on her belly again; he cupped his palms around it and pulled her closer to him as he slowed back down. Joan buried her face in her arms, abruptly overcome with the urge to sob: he was staying true to his word, even though it was evident that he wanted to let himself go, and she was nearly overwhelmed with a sudden rush of love for him.

        She murmured his name into the space between her arms and the table, over and over again, her voice pitching with each thrust forward. After a few minutes, he finally gave her one last push, burying himself totally inside her and pressing his stomach flat to her spine, closing the gap between them. Joan cried out again in mingled pain and pleasure, and he sagged against her as he emptied himself, heaving and grunting. He lay against her for several long moments, his cheek hot against her shoulder blade.

        Joan was the first to stir, her calves trembling, threatening to seize and cramp under their combined weight.

        “Are you okay?” she asked. Joshua shifted, his forearms shivering on either side of her head.

        “Of course I’m fine,” he said. His voice was dull and fatigued. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

        “Last… last time,” Joan managed to utter, struggling to speak with his weight bearing down against her ribcage. She recalled his wide blue eyes, wild and frantic as he had torn away his clothes to try to cool himself off.

        “... Ah. Of course,” he replied. He finally pulled himself off of her and Joan took a deep breath, filling her lungs as he also withdrew from inside of her. She felt something wet snake out of her and run down her thigh.

        “I’m fine. It’s much cooler now, so I’m at no risk of overheating again,” Joshua said, tucking himself back into his jeans and latching his belt buckle. Joan finally hauled herself up onto the heels of her hands and her dress fell, covering her again. She turned and looked at him. The flesh around his eyes was reddened and he looked hazy and spent.

        “Undressing isn’t a bad idea though,” he said, more to himself than to her as he shrugged out of his SWAT vest before placing it neatly on the table. He was about to remove his shirt as well when he turned and cast an appraising eye at Joan. She was patting down her dress and running her fingers through her hair in an attempt to bring it back under control.

        “We should bathe properly. Come with me.”

        He didn’t give her any opportunity to reject him, instead immediately striding toward the entrance of the cavern. Joan hastily wiped between her legs with the underwear that had fallen around her ankle before following after him.

        “Aren’t you tired?” Joan asked. _She_ certainly was—her eyelids were drooping and heavy already and all she truly wanted to do was lie down in Joshua’s lean-to and rest. Joshua shook his head.

        “This will be worth it.”

        It didn’t take them long to enter the Eastern Virgin and Joshua led the way, navigating through the traps set in the shallow water. More had been placed since the 80s had shown up; Joan looked down at them, flattered and pink.

        “Do you believe that God is our eternal Father?” Joshua asked. He was ahead of her, wetness slowly creeping up the legs of his jeans as they traversed the waters. The canyon walls opened up to the road and dock ahead and Joan sped up to walk by his side, letting her dress fall to the stream, the hem immediately soaking through and dragging against her shins.

        “Yes, of course I do,” she replied. Joshua glanced at her, his eyes warm.

        “That’s good. Do you also believe that Jesus Christ is the Savior and the Redeemer?”

        Joan arched her eyebrow at him.

        “I’d have thought that went without saying, but yes, I do.”

        “So you believe that the true church has been restored by the prophet?”

        Joan cocked her head in further confusion. Joshua had spoken about the original founder of their faith; he had told her that the angels and God had come to that man in prayer and instructed him to restore the true church, and to denounce the false whore churches that had come before it. She cautiously nodded at him.

        “That’s what you told me,” she said.

        Joshua returned her nod. Instead of stepping up onto the dock he led her further into the river.

        “What about repentance?” he asked her. “Do you believe that you have repented for your past sins?”

        “I… _suppose_ I have,” Joan said somewhat uncomfortably, casting her hands out in a small shrug. “I haven’t been perfect, but I try my best.”

        “That’s the only thing that we can do, and all that God will ever ask of us,” Joshua replied solemnly. The waters were at waist level now and it was difficult for Joan to wade through them, so she reached out and grasped Joshua’s sleeve for balance. Fortunately Joshua led them closer to the shore, directing their path toward a shallow inlet that Joan had never seen before. It was tucked away from the rest of the river in a small secluded bay that was surrounded by tall red rocks, almost like the Dead Horse’s camp in miniature.

        Joshua turned to Joan as they both stood ankle deep in the water.

        “Have you ever committed a serious crime?” he asked sharply. Joan’s eyebrows shot up.

        “What’s with the interview?” she asked him. It had been nice at first, that he had apparently developed a sudden interest in her, but she was quickly becoming suspicious. Joshua spread his hands disarmingly.

        “I only have a few more questions. So have you?”

        Joan looked away, worrying at the edge of her cuff with her fingertips.

        “That depends on your definition of a serious crime,” she said, thinking of the smoking crater in Hidden Valley. “I’ve done things that had to be done… but I don’t consider them crimes.”

        Joshua studied her for a moment, and Joan felt uncomfortably as though he was reading her mind, his pale blue eyes seeming to pierce straight through her.

        “I understand,” he said quietly. “Have you ever been in a homosexual relationship?”

        “ _What_?” Joan’s face immediately shifted a brilliant pink. “No! Why on earth would you even think—or ask—about that?”

        Joshua stifled a small laugh and began to unbutton his shirt.

        “It’s just a formality. I assumed you hadn’t, but I had to know. So all I have to ask you now is this: would you like to be baptized?”

        Joan sharply inhaled, flustering. Joshua had stripped out of his shirt and was unbuttoning his jeans. She cast her eyes away.

        “Ah… I don’t know.”

        “I believe that you’re prepared for it,” Joshua said. He had paused, his unzipped jeans resting loosely around his hips, with his garment shirt tucked into them. “It’s been decades since I last performed the rites, but I still have the authority to do so, despite everything. I deferred to Daniel and let him perform the baptism ceremonies while he was still here, but obviously he isn’t anymore. As I am the only one with Priesthood Authority now, _someone_ must perform them. And I think it would be… _fitting_ , if we were to be each other’s firsts.”

        Joan blushed deep red again.

        “I’m not sure…” she trailed off, avoiding looking at his shoulders and stomach as he stood before her.

        “I won’t push you,” Joshua said. “But there’s no point in delaying, and it’s better if you don’t. The first fruits of repentance is baptism; you have accepted Christ as your savior, just as I have. What would you be waiting for?”

        Joan glanced at him before shifting back and forth on her feet, creating shallow ripples that bloomed outward and spread across the inlet.

        “I don’t know… I suppose that makes sense,” she said slowly. He had mentioned the concept of baptism to her before, during her first visit to Zion, but it had seemed an unimportant thing then, with the battle for Hoover Dam nearly upon her. Still, her faith had only strengthened since then, hadn’t it? She may have wavered—certainly during the past few months she had—but her belief had not subsided. Joshua had shown her the light, proverbially speaking; the things she had been forced to do had weighed on her mind heavily, and for the first time she felt that someone might forgive her for them, since it seemed unlikely that those that had suffered at her hands ever would. She thought glumly of Veronica as she fidgeted with the cuff of her sleeve.

        “By making this covenant,” Joshua interrupted her thoughts. “You’ll be renewed. In giving yourself up to the Holy Spirit, you’ll have the opportunity to truly repent, and make peace with the things that you’ve had to do. You’ll come to know and understand God in ways that you never did before, or would have even thought possible, and you’ll feel His everlasting love and forgiveness every day of the rest of your life.”

        He paused, his eyes boring into hers.

        “I’ve told you about the many, _many_ mistakes I have made in this life. Even for people like you and I, there is a light shining in the darkness. I could not have come as far as I have, survived all that I did, if it were not for God. I believe the same is true of you, Joan. You have nothing to lose, and everything to gain. Will you give yourself over to Christ?”

        Joshua’s words had stirred something in her, just as they had the first time he had spoken to her about God. What a relief it had been to learn then, she reflected. That no matter what she did, there would always be someone who would watch over her. That would understand why she had done the awful things she’d had to do, and would know that her intentions had only ever been pure. Someone that would catch her when she stumbled, and support her as she faltered; that would forgive her for all the people that she had hurt. An eternal friend and companion, who would always love her.

        Joan hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath; it exited her in a long steady exhale, and after a moment’s hesitation she finally nodded. Joshua noticeably brightened, the faint wrinkles around his eyes crinkling with the smile concealed beneath his bandages.

        “Go ahead and get undressed then. We should bathe first,” Joshua said, already pushing down his jeans.

        Joan was hesitant to strip; it occurred to her that she had never been fully nude before Joshua—or anyone else—before. He was unlacing the bandages around his head and neck by the time she finally lifted her dress over her head, her back turned to him as she folded it primly and placed it on the narrow shore of the cove. Demurely, she covered her breasts with one arm and her bulging stomach with the other before turning to face Joshua.

        She had never seen all of him either, and the realization seemed to strike him at the same time as their eyes met. The last of his faded and dingy bandages fell away and he stood completely bare before her, his blackened and scarred skin unnatural looking in the sunlight. The burns covered the entirety of his body, from his head and neck to his stomach and thighs; she could see that his toes were also burned, so severely that a few of them had fused together. He stood grimacing in the open air and stared back at her, the same challenge in his eyes that had been there the night she had washed his face for him.

        Joan approached him, letting her arms fall to her sides; it seemed silly to be shy about her body in contrast to his. He looked down at her as she tentatively reached toward him and brushed her finger across his chest, their scarred flesh meeting each other with a whisper.

        “I know it hurts,” she said, letting her hand fall away from the angry red swirls of charred skin. “Will it be better in the water?”

        “Immensely so,” Joshua said, his voice strained with suffering. They entered the small body of water side by side; the water was deceptively deep at the center of the pool, enough for both of them to fully submerge themselves.

        They ignored each other as they washed, each focused on scrubbing away the grime, sweat and fluid of their coupling. Joan could hear Joshua occasionally hiss with pain, but she resisted the urge to hover over him.

        “I do this every day,” he said, as if reading her thoughts again. “Don’t worry about me. It’s a necessary evil.”

        Joan twisted around to look at him.

        “Can I help with anything then?” she asked. Joshua had a small white cloth that he had been using to wash himself with. He considered her for a moment before extending it to her.

        “Though I’ve retained much more flexibility than any other man in my position would have been blessed with… I will admit, it’s difficult to reach parts of my back sometimes,” he said, turning and giving his back to her. Joan waded over to him and accepted the cloth. Up close, she could see that there were scattered patches of skin that were comparatively unharmed. It made sense, she thought sardonically—she doubted Caesar had been so kind as to lash Joshua to a spit to ensure even doneness. She started with those relatively unscathed areas first before running the wet cloth over the worst of the burns, doing her best to ignore Joshua’s restrained grunts of pain. She finished as quickly and thoroughly as she could before tapping his shoulder and handing the cloth back to him. He turned to face her. His eyes were bright against the charred redness of his skin.

        “Thank you. Would you like to proceed now?”

        Joan swallowed.

        “… Yes.”

        Joshua smiled at her, his blackened lips curving upward. It would have looked sinister if not for the radiant warmth and eagerness in his eyes. He gently took her by the shoulder and pulled her close to him.

        “Ordinarily one should wear white to be baptized… but I suppose neither of us is truly pure, are we?” he said dryly before pressing his eyes closed. Joan followed his lead, bowing her head respectfully. Her glasses slipped down her nose and she hastily pushed them back into place.

        “Having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you, Joan, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen”

        As Joshua spoke the final word he gently pushed her backward, dunking her head under the water and fully submerging her.

        For a moment it was as if she had disappeared—Joan did not feel Joshua’s hands on her shoulder and on the small of her back, and the water around her wasn’t water at all; instead it was the comforting warmth of an embrace, and she brimmed with affection. Her hands curved around her belly, mirroring the embrace she felt around her.

        The moment seemed to last both an instant and a lifetime.

        Then Joshua was bringing her back up again, and she gasped for air, water speckling her glasses. She gazed at him and he looked back down at her, his eyes wide.

        “How did it feel?” he asked her, sounding almost as breathless as she was. Joan hung limp in his arms for a moment, dizzy with the rapidly fleeting feeling.

        “… Wonderful,” she moaned, her head light as she slumped against his chest. Joshua gathered her up into his arms and carried her to the shore before laying her down in the shallow waters. She tugged off her glasses and placed them on the sand beside her before looking up at him, her breathing shallow and rapid as she laced her arms around his scarred shoulders. Joshua’s chest was heaving as well as he fell between her thighs, his weight soothing and solid as he pushed into her.

***

        Some time later they had cleaned themselves up once more, and Joshua was sitting by the edge of the water, winding bandages around his forearms. His face and neck were already wrapped up again and he was taking his time on the rest of his body. Joan had put her glasses back on and was studying him carefully as she sat wringing water out of her hair. Joshua was meticulous as usual; she could see that he was careful as he bound himself back up, making efficient use of the fresh roll of bandages he had brought with him. They sat in comfortable silence as he finished before he finally stood up and dressed himself again.

        “Let’s head back. It’s nearly dark,” Joshua observed, glancing upward. A spattering of stars was already surfacing, dim against the remaining brightness of the sky. Joan followed him as he led her out of the secluded cove and back to the Dead Horses camp.

        She was thoroughly exhausted now; Joshua led them straight past his lean-to and back into the Angel Cave.

        “What else do you have to do?” she asked incredulously, staring over her shoulder at the mouth of the cave, longing for the beds that lay just beyond it. Judging by the way Joshua’s shoes were dragging against the cave floor, he was also spent. He didn’t say anything as she followed him up to his chamber before they passed through it and exited to the small, separated camp that overlooked the river. Idly rubbing at her wrists, Joan glanced at the ledge and stared at it for a moment; she caught herself and turned back around.

        Joshua had pulled the furs out of the abandoned lean-to and was now airing them out, shaking dust and debris out of the heavy bedding before tucking them neatly back inside. Next he went to the small empty fire pit—a few minutes later she could smell smoke, and Joshua stepped back, the faded shins of his damp jeans illuminated with the newborn fire that he had created. A cold breeze pushed itself through the tall rocks of the valley as Joan stood under the rapidly darkening skies, watching Joshua with her palms resting against her belly.

        As soon as he was finished, Joshua stripped down to his garments, laying his damp clothes out beside the fire to dry before finally climbing into the lean-to and beckoning her to him. Following his lead, she also undressed before joining him, crawling under the furs and into his arms.


	16. Stand By Your Man

Chapter 16: Stand By Your Man

_You'll have bad times, and he'll have good times, doin' things that you don't understand; but if you love him, you'll forgive him, even though he's hard to understand_

        Bright morning sunlight fell across Joan’s arm as it lay extended outside of the lean-to, spreading warmth across it. She stirred before fumbling beside herself for her glasses, and pushing them onto her face. Joshua’s chest was pressed into her back, and it was rising and falling with slow and steady rhythm. His arms were laced around her, his palms pressing into her stomach. Joan sighed, lying as still as she could to savor the moment. She’d slept better that night than she had in months.

        As if sensing that she had woken, Joshua began to rouse beside her, drawing one of his hands away from her to rub at his eyes. Joan craned her neck to look up at him—he looked faintly bewildered, as if he couldn’t recall how exactly he had gotten where he was. After a moment he looked down at her and his expression settled. He placed his hand against her belly again and stroked it for a moment before gently nudging her away.

        “We should get up.”

        Joan nodded in agreement before pushing the furs down and crawling out of the lean-to. It was difficult to pick herself up from the ground now, her stomach as swollen and protuberant as it was; using the structure of the lean-to to balance herself, she climbed to her feet before looking down at her bare body. It looked strange, overly exposed in the daylight, and color crept across her face to look at it for too long. As Joshua exited the lean-to, she hastily picked up her discarded dress, dragging it over her head.

        As she dressed, Joshua picked up his own clothes. He extended his wrist as he pulled his faded shirt on, the stitched black circles that adorned his sleeve traveling up his arm before settling. With a practiced movement he tugged the black garter into place over his elbow next, giving it a snap before moving on to his jeans. Joan watched as he tugged them around his hips, listening to the faint metallic jingle of his belt buckle as he pulled it tight before clasping it shut. He turned around and she flushed, realizing that he had caught her staring at him again; there was no mistaking the amusement in his eyes as he approached her.

        “Can you help me?” she asked quickly, turning her back to him, not just to offer him the zipper of her dress, but to try to obscure the bright color heating her cheeks and ears.

        “Of course,” Joshua said—the smile was evident in his voice too. Joan leaned forward, willing her face to return to a normal hue as Joshua zipped her dress up. He paused, running his fingers through the ends of her hair.

        “This is getting a bit long,” he said. It was enough of a shift that Joan finally relaxed again, turning back to him and lifting her hand to her hair. She hadn’t really looked at a reflection of herself in some time, it occurred to her. Her hair swept well past her shoulders now, and it suddenly felt annoying against the back of her neck. She had always preferred to keep it short.

        “Do you like it?” Joan looked up at Joshua’s face, gauging him. He contemplated her for a moment.

        “I can confess, I preferred it when it was shorter. It suited you,” he said after a moment. Joan smiled at him.

        “I agree,” she replied. Joshua arched an eyebrow at her before walking away, back into the Angel Cave.

        “See if one of the Sorrows will cut it for you then, they’re good at that sort of thing.”

        Joan trotted after him, satisfied as he entered the cave. He let out a small noise of annoyance at the guns scattered all over the ground from the previous day before kneeling to begin collecting them.

        There was no tension or awkwardness between them, and she was reminded of her time in the camp when she had first arrived; she would have found it strange if Joshua was suddenly overly affectionate, and was happy that he was content to get back to work, business as usual.

        Joan debated sitting beside Joshua, as she usually did, but elected not to—the equilibrium she had felt after that first night in his arms had returned, and she passed by him, walking to the corridor that led to the chamber below Joshua’s. He didn’t stop her, which further inflated the sense of delicious freedom that was bubbling inside her.

        Feeling more like herself than she had in some time—better, even—Joan entered the section of the cave that led out into the Dead Horse’s camp. It was full of the women of the camp, who were busy preparing lunch. Waking Cloud looked up at her and smiled; Passing Dawn was sitting by the fire and had also looked up, waving at Joan with one hand while stroking her enormous belly with the other.

        “Gootmorgen—you look happy,” Passing Dawn said, looking Joan up and down. Joan pursed her lips and glanced away before looking back and giving her a tiny, rapid nod. Passing Dawn laughed, and Waking Cloud approached them, holding a knife in each hand.

        “Are you here to work?” she said, smiling broadly at Joan. Joan stared at the knife for a moment, hesitating. She hadn’t helped out with domestic duties since the day the 80s had attacked. Her mood was so bright and sunny, however, that she figured it wouldn’t hurt. She accepted one of the knives from Waking Cloud and set to work at a table close to the fire, so that she could continue speaking with Passing Dawn.

        “I was baptized yesterday,” Joan announced proudly, running the tip of her knife down the length of a radish. She had never seen one—much less eaten one—since before entering Zion, and found that she liked them. The women in the cave looked up, grinning and congratulating her, although she couldn’t understand a word most of them were saying.

        “That is wonderful!” Waking Cloud exclaimed, clapping Joan on the shoulder. “You must be so happy.”

        “It’s been really nice,” Joan said, looking down at her vegetable again, her face flushing pink.

        “You were gone last night, so it looks like it has been nice,” Passing Dawn said slyly. Joan’s hand slipped, and she nearly sent the blade of her knife through her fingertip instead of the skin of the radish; she quickly corrected herself, her blush reaching her ears.

        “That is good news, Joan,” Passing Dawn said a moment later, speaking much more seriously. “Not all of Joshua’s changes have been easy, but that one has been a good one. The teachings of the Father have been good for all of us.”

        Passing Dawn looked down at her stomach, caressing it with a smile. It was huge now, larger than Joan thought could be possible.

        “You will be due very soon,” Waking Cloud commented to Passing Dawn before continuing to speak to her in Res, the words coming out in a jumbled, unintelligible rush to Joan’s ears. She looked back and forth between them as they spoke to one another, her head cocked in confusion.

        “I am sorry,” Waking Cloud apologized, turning back to Joan. “I had to ask Passing Dawn if she had done the things I told her to, for her birth time. The words do not come to us easily in English yet.” She paused, looking at Joan’s belly. “Though I suppose I will have to practice, since it is nearly time for you to do those things too. Perhaps Joshua will help translate.”

        “What things?” Joan asked, mildly alarmed. Waking Cloud waved her hand dismissively as she set back to work on the food in front of her.

        “It is not much, just some stretches and things… training? I do not know the word. It will make the birth easier, help it to not hurt so much.”

        Joan paled.

        “Do not be scared,” Waking Cloud said, looking up at Joan and offering her a comforting smile. “I have birthed three children. You will be fine.”

        Passing Dawn nodded sagely from her spot next to the fire, her long brown legs thrust out in front of her.

        “How many children do you have?” Joan asked her curiously, anxious to distract herself from thoughts of the future.

        “This will be my first,” Passing Dawn replied proudly. “But Waking Cloud is a skilled midwife; I know that I am in good hands.”

        “I see,” Joan said mindlessly. She turned back to the tato she had been slicing, finding the work much more cumbersome and difficult than it had been a moment ago. Among the shuffling of bare feet, Joan heard heeled footsteps enter the chamber.

        “There you are,” Joshua said, looking at Joan from the mouth of the chamber. He quickly crossed the room to join her side. “I was wondering where you had gone off to.”

        “I just thought I would make myself useful,” Joan replied, continuing to work on the tato she was bracing against the flat surface of the cutting board. With Joshua over her shoulder, she felt even clumsier, and worked overly hard to slice correctly, irrationally paranoid that she would disappoint him somehow if messed up.

        Joshua was looking down at her with his brows arched in surprise.

        “You don’t have to,” he said. Around him some of the Sorrows narrowed their eyes at Joan. She ignored them.

        “You’re not a guest here now, but I hope you don’t feel… _reduced,_ to doing this kind of labor. I’ve seen what you’re capable of,” Joshua finished. Joan gave him a half smile. She was here of her own volition, but it was nice to know this wasn’t going to become an expectation moving forward. Her mind flashed back to the girlish pre-war fantasy her mind had conjured all those months ago—she could never be a domesticated housewife, serving drinks and preparing breakfast, not even for Joshua Graham. It was a relief to know that he felt similarly.

        “I don’t feel obligated. It’s just nice to hang out and chip in. I’m not used to so much sitting around, you know,” she said. Joshua nodded appreciatively.

        “Well that’s good then,” he said, turning on his heel to leave. “Don’t forget to ask one of the Sorrows about your hair.”

        Joan, Passing Dawn, and Waking Cloud waved at Joshua as he walked away, heading back up to his chamber of the Angel Cave.

        “Your hair?” Passing Dawn asked. Joan took one of her hands from the tato and tugged at the strands of hair brushing her chest.

        “Yeah, it’s gotten too long,” she said. “I was hoping one of you could cut it for me?”

        “Oh, I would be happy to,” Passing Dawn replied. “I am not used to so much sitting around either.”

        “She’s so far along now, she should stay off her feet and relax,” Waking Cloud explained. “But I think it would be alright if she did this.”

        Passing Dawn hefted herself to her feet, her hand bearing down on the back of her hip for stability as Joan finished up the tato she had been chopping, depositing the pieces into the pile with the rest of the vegetables.

        “Let’s go outside,” Passing Dawn said, and Joan stood back, allowing her to lead the way.

***

        The rest of the day passed smoothly. After Passing Dawn cut Joan’s hair—restoring it to its neat crop, the ends resting just above the collar of her dress—Joan continued to lend a hand to the Sorrows in the Angel Cave, pitching in with cleaning up after lunch and preparing dinner. For each meal she took her spot beside Joshua Graham and the Sorrows served them first, before they collectively lowered their heads as Joshua lead them in prayer.

        Joan had found the work in the bottom half of the Angel Cave to be pleasant, especially knowing that Joshua was only a few dozen feet away, lost in his own chores.

        When the day’s activities were finally over, Joan accompanied Joshua to the small inlet that he had led her to the previous day. He washed and bandaged himself—with Joan helping him to reach the parts of his back that gave him trouble—before they made their way back to the camp, under a thick blanket of stars in the sky above. As before, they bypassed the lean-to in the main camp and continued through the Angel Cave before finally stopping in the smaller, secluded camp on the cliff side.

        Joan stood back as Joshua prepared the fire once more before stripping out of his clothes and down to his garments. Joan was studying him again.

        “What are those markings?” she asked, gesturing to the embroidered symbols that adorned Joshua’s chest.

        Joshua looked down at them before looking back at her. He deliberated for a moment before speaking.

        “They’re a reminder of the covenant I made with God,” he replied. “Long ago, every grown man and woman of my tribe wore these under their clothes.”

        Joan glanced down at herself. She had also stripped down, wearing nothing but the pale grey undergarments she usually wore.

        “It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with yet,” Joshua said, a strange note of finality in his voice as he turned around and prepared their bedding. Joan was tempted to push him on it, but she knew better by now. Instead, she waited for Joshua to nestle himself inside the lean-to before crawling in after him. They had spent most of the day apart from each other, and Joan was pleased when Joshua pulled her into his arms, cradling her stomach with his hands and burying his face in her hair. Joan cupped her hands around Joshua’s, and was asleep within minutes.


	17. Even If It Hurts

Chapter 17: Even If It Hurts

_Don't let it take the skin from your bones; it's darkest before the dawn, but you don't need to do this alone_

        A little more than a month had passed since her baptism, and Joan was standing in the bottom of the Angel Cave, chopping some fruit. Her appetite had become voracious; every so often she paused to pop a sweet morsel in her mouth, frequently enough that Waking Cloud had jokingly asked her to save some for the rest of the tribe. Joan had never enjoyed sweet things before, but now she found them intoxicating, the sugar tickling a part of her tongue in a way that it never had before. The caravan that she and Joshua had traded with had continued to stop by the valley at monthly intervals—Joan hadn’t been quite up to making the walk since the first time she had gone with Joshua, but he usually went for her, bringing back a box or two of Dandy Apples or Fancy Lads Snack Cakes each time. They would sit on the long stone walkways arching over the camp side by side, the bandages around Joshua’s mouth peeled back so that he could enjoy the treats as well.

        Joan’s belly had swollen even larger, and she had gained weight throughout the rest of her body as well, causing her old suit to look laughably tiny in comparison to her now. Waking Cloud had assured her—during one of the rounds of exercises she had begun to task Joan with in preparation for the birth, which still secretly unnerved and terrified her—that she would eventually return to what she looked like before, something that Joan had taken no small amount of comfort in. Every part of her felt enormous, as if she was taking up far too much space.

        Though she had more or less come to terms with the changes overcoming her body, she still elected to ignore her belly as often as possible—at least until night fell, when she climbed into the shared lean-to that Joshua had made their own. The thing inside had grown far more active as of late, particularly at night, and Joshua delighted in cradling her stomach, responding to each movement with rapt joy.

        Occasionally he would begin to speak of the future, and Joan would promptly squeeze her eyes closed, feigning sleep. She knew Joshua was never fooled by this, but he was polite enough to drop the conversation each time it happened. The days were pleasant enough taken on their own—Joan might even go so far as to say that she was happy now, at least most of the time—but she didn’t dare think ahead. She didn’t even allow herself to think of Boone or Arcade or Yes Man, lest she be overcome with the aching sorrow of homesickness. Her absence had to have been noticed by now, and the thought of her friends searching in vain for her—or worse, grieving for her—made her feel as though a power fist had been driven into her stomach.

        Eventually she would see them again.

        Joan’s pregnancy wasn’t the only notable one in the camp though—Passing Dawn was so large now, she looked like she might pop if you prodded her, and she had been confined to resting by the large fire in the center of the camp. Though Joshua usually left the women to their own devices, even he had taken an interest in her—he had started to include her during his prayers, solemnly asking God to look after her and the life she was soon to deliver, that her child would arrive strong and healthy. Joan flushed at the thought, wondering if he said similar prayers for her as well; she was silently thrilled and anxious at the prospect.

        It was a cold, grey day in mid-October when Passing Dawn curled in on herself in the middle of lunch, seized with a terrible pain that wrapped around from the small of her back to the front of her stomach. She had begun feeling similar bouts of discomfort for the past few weeks, but none as debilitating as this.

        Joan stared at Passing Dawn, the color draining from her face.

        “Shouldn’t we… do something?” Joan asked tentatively. Passing Dawn’s husband had led her away from the picnic table to rest by the fire, where they sat together. Passing Dawn was fraught with both pain and joy, and Tracks-Rain seemed anxiously happy as he tenderly massaged her back.

        Waking Cloud shook her head as she continued to eat her food.

        “No, she will be like this for many hours. There is nothing to do now but wait.”

        And she was right—the rest of the men and women of the camp continued their daily routines, as though Passing Dawn wasn’t sitting and grimacing in pain at the center of the camp. Joan hovered around the mouth of the cave awkwardly, torn between wanting to watch Passing Dawn and wanting to retreat to Joshua’s chamber to hide and ignore everything. More than once, one of the Sorrows had to butt her out of the way, snapping at her in Res. It took one of them complaining to Joshua that she was blocking the entrance of the cave before he finally approached her, the grooves around his eyes tight with annoyance.

        “Stay inside or go outside,” he said. “Pick one.”

        Joan bounced her weight from heel to heel with anxiety, her eyes glued to Passing Dawn, who was propped against a log, enjoying a brief reprieve from the pain as she dozed. The sun had come out of the hazy grey clouds, and the afternoon was brilliantly sunny now, casting its warmth down on the camp.

        “I understand,” Joshua said quietly; this was enough for Joan to finally tear her eyes away from Passing Dawn and look up at him. His eyes had lost their severe edge, though he still remained stern. “I know it must be frightening for you to watch her suffer. But this is only temporary—she must endure until the end, when her trials will be rewarded. In the meantime, you would do well to stay busy. Waking Cloud is right; this will go on for some time, and you’re not benefitting either Passing Dawn or yourself to stand around doing nothing. Perhaps you should consider helping with dinn—”

        “I thought you said I didn’t _have_ to,” Joan snapped at him, jerking her fretful gaze back to Passing Dawn. Joshua narrowed his eyes at her.

        “No, you do not _have_ to, but you can’t just stand in the entrance and block everyone who wants to come and go either. If you want to join Passing Dawn, go join her; if you don’t, go make yourself useful with the other women.”

        It did not go over Joan’s head that there was no third option: sitting and joining Joshua. He wore an expression of cool irritation, and it was directed at her.

        “… _Fine_ ,” she said after a brief delay. Despite her aggravation, she couldn’t bring herself to hover over Passing Dawn and look at what was looming in her own future; Joan spun around and entered the cave before picking up a knife and distractedly chopping at a piece of mutfruit. Joshua cast one last look at her before turning and heading back up the corridor to his own chamber.

        Night fell and there was little change with Passing Dawn’s condition; Joan was standing by the canyon wall, watching her while twisting a frayed thread on the edge of her cuff.

        “Stop that.”

        Joshua had come to stand by her side, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms.

        “There is no need to worry,” Waking Cloud said, appearing on Joan’s other side. She had just finished serving Passing Dawn her dinner, which she had only taken slow, unenthusiastic bites of. “This is normal. I expect she will be delivering sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

        Joan stared at Passing Dawn, who had lurched over, her face twisting in pain as Tracks-Rain rubbed her back. Joshua seized Joan’s wrist—her fingertips had begun prying apart the threads on her cuff, splitting them before twisting them together again. He placed her hand by her side and held it there.

        “We should go to bed,” he said, sliding his hand up Joan’s arm and taking her elbow instead. Waking Cloud waved at them as he steered Joan back inside the Angel Cave. She wasn’t happy to be led around by Joshua—as if she was a dog that needed to be trained and corrected, instead of her own person—but she couldn’t deny that standing and fretting would do nothing. She decided to place her trust in both God and Waking Cloud.

        As she and Joshua stripped down for bed, she prayed silently to herself, asking God to look after Passing Dawn and help ease her pain, and that her baby would be born safe and healthy.

        Her hands wandered to her own stomach as she appealed to God, her fingertips worrying against the shallow lightning bolt shaped stretch marks that striped her belly and sides now. A faint brown line had also appeared on her stomach, bisecting her torso from her ribs to her pelvis, disappearing at a point far below what she was capable of seeing.

        Joshua had entered the lean-to, and Joan breathed a small sigh of relief that his agitation seemed to have faded. He held his arm open to her as he always did, and she climbed in after him. Usually they slept curled side by side against each other, but this time Joan faced him. It was slightly awkward with her swollen stomach in the way. She hesitated before wrapping her arms around him and pressing her face to his chest, her forehead resting against the symbols on his garment. Joshua lay still for a moment before he wrapped his arms around her in return, letting one of his hands come to rest in her hair, weaving his fingertips into the thin black strands.

        She wasn’t usually this overtly affectionate with Joshua—indeed, they hadn’t lain together intimately since the day of her baptism—and she felt that she should apologize to him for being so bold. Again, it was as if Joshua could read her mind.

        “Cast your cares on the Lord and he will sustain you; he will never let the righteous fall. You and Passing Dawn with both be fine,” Joshua said, his words quiet and soothing in the darkness. Joan’s hands tightened around him, her palms flattening against the curve of his spine, and Joshua pulled her closer, her stomach pressing into his own and warming both of them.

***

        The following morning and afternoon dragged by, to Joan’s mounting anxiety and irritation. The night had passed without incident; during the afternoon, Passing Dawn’s bouts of pain had started to come at regular intervals and the time between them began to slowly decrease.

        “You are doing just fine,” Waking Cloud said. She and Tracks-Rain had moved Passing Dawn inside the cave, which the Sorrows had spent the morning clearing out. Passing Dawn was sprawled out across the floor, her face slicked with sweat. The men—even Joshua Graham and Tracks-Rain—kept a wide berth from the cave now; Passing Dawn considered it an ill omen for men to be present during the birth. Joan suspected it had more to do with Passing Dawn being too proud to allow anyone other than Waking Cloud and herself to see her this way, given that none of the Sorrows was present either. Joan was flattered, in a peculiar sort of way.

        Another stab of agony sent Passing Dawn’s eyes rolling, her hands clenched into fists as she growled a slew of curses—at least Joan assumed they were, she wasn’t quite certain if Passing Dawn was speaking in English or Res at this point—at no one in particular. After a few tense minutes she collapsed back onto the furs, her chest heaving up and down as tears leaked from her eyes.

        Joan wanted to leave; as if aware of this, Passing Dawn seized her small hand, squeezing it with enough force that Joan thought the narrow bones would snap. She winced.

        “Sorry,” Passing Dawn groaned. “You should stay and witness this, Joan. You will see that it is not so bad, and you will not be so scared when you have your own baby.”

        Joan jerked her head the opposite direction, paling. She did not want to contemplate that. At the same time however, she was touched by the fact that even in this terrible moment, Passing Dawn was thinking of her. Steeling herself, she turned back to face her. Passing Dawn was doing her best to smile at Joan through the pain contorting her face.

        Joan withdrew one of the clean rags from the pile that Waking Cloud had stacked neatly in reservation, and used it to tenderly dab away some of the sweat on the other woman’s brow. Passing Dawn closed her eyes and, for a moment, looked so terrifyingly young and fragile that it stabbed through Joan’s heart. She violently twisted her head away again, swiping under her glasses and clearing her throat.

        “You can do this,” she said. It wasn’t clear if she was speaking to Passing Dawn or to herself. Passing Dawn gave her hand another squeeze, one that was much gentler this time.

        Without thinking, Joan threw her arms around Passing Dawn, burying her face into the crook of her tanned neck, her shoulders trembling. Passing Dawn didn’t hesitate to return the embrace, pulling Joan as close as their enormous stomachs would allow.

        “ _Don’t be afraid_ ,” she whispered to Joan. Joan sniffed loudly before composing herself and pulling away, wiping at her eyes again.

        “I won’t if you won’t,” she said, her voice shaky. Passing Dawn nodded at her, and it strengthened Joan. Another one of the hellish waves of pain overcame Passing Dawn then, and Joan sat beside her, grasping her hand tightly in her own.

        “This must look pretty stupid,” Joan said after it passed. “This is your first time too. I feel like I should be the one comforting _you_.”

        Passing Dawn’s breathing was shuddery and wracked as she endured the last tremors of pain.

        “You can comfort me when the pain gets _really_ bad,” Passing Dawn said after a moment spent gathering herself. “Besides—I am older than you.”

        Joan laughed before picking up the rag and wiping Passing Dawn’s brow again as Waking Cloud entered the cave; Joan could briefly spy Joshua looking in over her shoulder before he disappeared again. In her hands were pails of fresh water, and sandwiched between her arms and torso were linens.

        “Looks like it is almost time,” she said brightly. Joan stepped aside to make room for Waking Cloud, who promptly took Joan’s spot beside Passing Dawn.

        “Thank the Father,” Passing Dawn groaned—even though she had only just endured one of the tidalwave-like bouts of pain, another was already passing over her, leaving her gasping and heaving. Joan’s hands grew cold as she watched her. In just a couple months—by Waking Cloud’s estimate—she would be enduring this exact thing. She wanted to step away again, or possibly run outside of the cave entirely, but a look from Passing Dawn stayed her feet.

        The three endured this for some time as the waves of pain came steadily, one nearly on top of the other; Passing Dawn had begun to roar with pain each time it happened, causing Joan to flinch and recoil away from her. She had taken to spitting out garbled curses and prayers once more.

        Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Waking Cloud grew excited and tense. Passing Dawn was babbling incoherently, leaning forward and tensing, the muscles in her arms popping with tension, slick and shiny with the sheen of sweat that covered her entire body.

        Joan had taken lives—more than she could readily count—and had witnessed, up close, the dying light fading from a person’s eyes as they took their final breaths. That did not compare to watching Passing Dawn buck and wail in agony, as though she wasn’t a woman, or even a human, anymore; she had transformed into something wild and ancient, primordial. For a moment it was awesome and terrifying, and Joan stared reverentially at Passing Dawn as Waking Cloud coaxed her, her tanned hands waiting expectantly between Passing Dawn’s thighs.

        From between her legs burst forth a tide of blood, drenching Waking Cloud’s open palms and splashing to the floor, turning the dusty red rocks of the cave bright red. A wrenching scream escaped Passing Dawn’s lips as the muscles in Waking Cloud’s shoulders tensed.

        Joan’s face turned paper white, as though an equivalent amount of blood had drained out of her own body. Waking Cloud was scrambling, trying to mop up the blood that coated the floor as still more poured from Passing Dawn.

        “Oh no—no, no, no,” Waking Cloud whispered, and Joan felt a scream rising in her own throat.

        “ _This isn’t normal_?” she cried, her voice coming out in a thin, high pitched shriek. Waking Cloud jerked her head to face Joan; she had paled as well, the thin blue lines that tattooed her body stark against her ashen flesh. With one blood soaked hand, she shoved Joan in the chest, leaving a wet palm print shining against the black fabric.

        “You need to leave, right now!” she ordered. Behind her, Passing Dawn had slumped to the floor of the cave, her hands and feet skeletally white, her chest no longer heaving but fluttering shallowly up and down. Her cries had diminished from screams of agony to airy whimpers. Joan stared in horror as Passing Dawn’s eyes rolled and swiveled around the room, finally landing on Joan. They were clouded and distant. Joan was half kneeling, locked in place.

        “I said _go_!” Waking Cloud commanded again. She was still working furiously between Passing Dawn’s thighs and, with fluid gush, something finally slid out.

        Joan gasped. The thing that had exited Passing Dawn’s slowly shuddering body was wet and pale and wrinkled, like something that had been left to rot for centuries at the bottom of the sea. Waking Cloud gasped as well, holding the thing in her hands, her jaw slack as she looked down at it. As if the thing had been corking her, Passing Dawn’s body gave up another tremendous rush of blood, which spread across the floor far enough that it began to seep into the stack of linens Waking Cloud had prepared earlier.

        “Oh, Father,” Waking Cloud murmured, her voice heavy. Joan still could not bring herself to move—her hands, her arms, her entire body was frozen as she stared at Passing Dawn. Her chest no longer moved at all; the only movements her body gave now were the faint jerking and twitching of her hips and thighs as still more blood flowed out from between her legs. Even that had begun to slow; instead of rushing out in hot bursts, it began to trickle, as though an internal faucet within her had given up all that it could.

        Waking Cloud had turned her body, shielding Joan from the small pale thing she cradled in her arms.

        “You should not see this.”

        Joan had been locked in terror since the first wave of blood, and now it was like she had surfaced from a lake—she felt her heart beating in her chest again, as rapid and thin as a bird’s, and she could hear the faint murmurs of the men outside, chattering obliviously.

        “Please go,” Waking Cloud begged. There was no more authority in her voice; only sorrow.

        As if she was being piloted by another entity, Joan pulled herself to her feet, and they carried her across the cave and out the mouth of it. She didn’t register the darkened sky, or the cove, or any of the men that were sitting around the fire. She didn’t even see Joshua, until he appeared directly in front of her. His eyes were bright against the faded bandages of his face for a flash before he grasped that something was wrong.

        “… Oh no,” he said slowly, his brows falling. Joan stared blankly up at his face, her mind filled with nothing but a dull roar, like the electric snow on a prewar television set.

        “Passing Dawn didn’t make it,” Joshua continued, staring down at her. It wasn’t a question, but a statement. “The child…?”

        For the first time since the entire nightmare had begun, Joan finally felt a twinge of pain deep within her chest, and her entire face scrunched up, the corners of her eyes burning. Joshua’s expression fell further before settling into grim acceptance.

        “I see.”

        Joan’s chest was heaving; she bent forward, trying to contain the dam of tears that was threatening to burst behind her eyes. Joshua placed a hand on her shoulder.

        “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints; while unfortunate, Passing Dawn wa—”

        “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Joan screamed, her small hands clawing at her face, struggling to contain it all. Around them, the men of the camp turned their heads, staring at Joan. Among them was Passing Dawn’s husband, Tracks-Rain. The light disappeared from his face, and he pushed his way past the men, running into the cave. A moment later a strangled yell echoed back to the camp, and then the sounds of sobbing.

        For a terrifying moment Joan thought she would vomit from the effort of keeping the door of her emotions slammed shut, locked and buried deep inside her; at the sound of Tracks-Rain’s weeping she stilled, welcoming the numbness that abruptly shrouded her again.

        She let Joshua gently take her shoulder and lead her away, to sit on the outskirts of the firelight. He was speaking to her, but she had no idea what he was saying—she was staring into the fire, watching the reflection of the flames dance in her sunglasses.

        After some time a silhouette obstructed her vision and she looked up. It was Tracks-Rain. His eyes were dark and bruised looking, his face streaked with dried tears. In his hands was a club, decorated with spent .45 casings and trails of yellow paint. Attached to the end was a cluster of feathers, which had been well kept to maintain their shape and color.

        “We do not know one another,” he began. His voice was stilted and slow as he struggled to pick out the correct words in English. “But you were a good friend to Passing Dawn. I think… she would want you to have this.”

        He lowered the club with reverence, placing it into Joan’s outstretched palms; Joan finally broke, lurching forward as hot tears rushed down her cheeks. Tracks-Rain wiped his own face.

        “I am sorry,” he said before spinning around and quickly walking away. He crossed the camp to join Waking Cloud, who was carrying a small linen wrapped bundle in her arms, wading into the Eastern Virgin and departing the camp with it.

        Joshua sat next to Joan as she sobbed, and she was thankful that he didn’t try to console her this time. God felt as distant to her as New Vegas now; she had no mind to listen to Joshua’s mindless platitudes about faith as she clutched the war club to her chest, hugging it as tightly as she had embraced Passing Dawn. The fabric bound end of the club dug into her swollen belly, but she didn’t care.

_I can’t do this_.


	18. Kashmir

Chapter 18: Kashmir

_All I see turns to brown as the sun burns the ground_

        Joshua and Joan went to bed that night as they usually did; he pulled her close to him in the darkness, wrapping his hands protectively around her stomach and stroking it.

        Joan lay beside him, her eyes swollen and red as she stared forward at the fire that Joshua had lit. She closed her eyes. Joshua accepted her silence, and within half an hour he had drifted to sleep, his chest gently pressing into her spine with each inhale. An hour passed, and she could tell that he was actually asleep, and not lying there with his eyes merely closed, as he sometimes did—his breathing took on a particular, deeper cadence when he was genuinely resting, and his hands were slack against her stomach.

        She wondered for a moment what he might be dreaming about. Sometimes he had nightmares; he never told her as much, but she could see the alarm in his icy blue eyes when he would bolt awake on certain mornings, his hand instinctively clawing for his pistol. He was always distant to her on those days.

        As gently as she could manage, she untangled herself from his arms before crawling to her knees outside the lean-to. She was grateful that he had stopped walling her in and trapping her with his body, as he had done in the beginning.

        She was just pulling herself to her feet and dragging her dress—which still bore the bloody handprint across the chest, nearly invisible against the black fabric—over her head when Joshua’s hand shot out, his blackened fingers wrapping around her ankle. Joan bit back a shriek and looked down at him.

        Joshua’s pale blue eyes were bleary and out-of-focus as he gazed back up at her.

        “Where are you going?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep.

        “I have to go,” she said. His eyes flashed with wary confusion, and Joan flushed as she gestured to her groin. Despite everything that they had been through together, she couldn’t bring herself to speak openly about bodily functions in front of him. Joshua stared at her for a moment longer before finally comprehending her; he curled deeper into the furs, making himself comfortable.

        “Alright,” he murmured, his eyes already falling shut again. “Don’t be gone long.”

        For the past several months, Joan had had to relieve herself nearly constantly, and night time was no exception—it wasn’t unusual for her to have to get up at least two or three times a night to take care of her business. At first Joshua had accompanied her, monitoring her as vigilantly as a hawk—though he was gentlemanly enough to allow her privacy during the actual act—but in the time that followed her baptism he seemed to finally trust that she wasn’t going to try to escape him again.

        Joan gazed down at Joshua Graham. His face was slack and calmly unaware, the bandages around his nostrils gently pushing inward and outward in rhythm with the slow rise and fall of his chest. A shadow fell over her face, and she longed to reach out to him. She did not.

_I’m sorry, but I have to do this… Please don’t hate me too much. I hope you forgive me._

        Joan spun around before her heart could coerce her into climbing back into the lean-to, back into his arms, back into what she had let herself grow accustomed to. For the first time in months she felt truly awake, and she was determined to hold onto it, and to not let herself grow complacent again.

_Please don’t ever let me forget this_ , Joan silently prayed, pinching her eyes shut and swallowing past the lump that had formed in her throat. _Don’t let me ever,_ ever _forget what he’s capable of. I still care about him… but if I don’t leave now, I never will. Give me strength, God, please._

        She walked as quickly and silently as she could manage into the Angel Cave. From there she allowed herself to speed up; as fast as she could, she emptied one of the burlap sacks in the room and began to fill it with as much food and water as she could find. There wasn’t much in Joshua’s chamber—mostly ancient cans of Cram and baked beans—but she swept all that she could find into the bag. Water was a larger concern—most of the camp drank directly from the Eastern Virgin, and there were few bottles of water, purified or otherwise, in the cave.

        After a few desperate minutes of searching, something caught the corner of Joan’s eye: one of the shelves lining the room stood further out than the others. Seized with curiosity, Joan approached it before gasping.

        Tucked behind the shelf was her pack, the one she had brought with her from New Vegas. For all the hours she had spent sitting in here with Joshua Graham, it had been sitting less than ten feet away from her the entire time.

        Without hesitation Joan yanked it out and dug through it. Within it was everything that Joshua had taken from her: her Pipboy, her spare suit, her caps, her sniper rifle. Even the gun that she had reclaimed from Randall Clark’s body was tucked into it. Also within the bag were the provisions she had packed in preparation for her return to the Mojave, including several pounds worth of purified water.

        Joan immediately abandoned the burlap sack she’d been carrying and hefted her pack onto her shoulders. It seemed much heavier now—she lowered the pack again and scanned inside it once more.

        Randall Clark’s gun. Of course.

        She bit her lip as she deliberated. She wanted to take the rifle with her—all of Randall Clark’s journal entries held a special place in her heart, and though she had barely used it, the rifle was as sacred to her now as his diary had been—but the practical side of her knew that she couldn’t afford to carry anything more than what was strictly necessary. She had spent months being sedentary, and it was showing: her swollen feet ached already, and the pack was heavy enough against her tender lower back without anything extra inside of it to bog her down further. Not to mention that she needed to exit Zion as quickly as possible—Joshua could rouse at any moment and find her like this. She closed her eyes and shuddered at the possibility before snapping them open again with resolve.

        “I’m sorry,” she whispered, tucking the rifle back into the space between the shelf and the jagged stone wall of the cave. She would miss it, but Randall Clark hadn’t been a sentimentalist, so neither would she.

        Survival was all that mattered.

        With that dilemma settled, there was one extra thing that Joan couldn’t bear to part with: Passing Dawn’s war club. It was lying on Joshua’s work table where she had left it earlier that evening as she and Joshua passed by it on their way to bed. She shoved it inside her pack before slinging it over her shoulder and hefting her sniper rifle up after it. She cast a brief look back at the exit that led to the overlook before quickly walking down the corridor of the cave, her bare feet slapping against the stone; her dress shoes were too tight to fit her swollen feet now, and she would just have to endure until Yes Man could rescue her.

        Joan bowed her head and averted her eyes, unable to bring herself to look at the place where Passing Dawn had given her life: a life that had been sacrificed for nothing, so completely and utterly wasted that the thought alone fed the seed of blackness within Joan’s belly, causing it to ache. Her fingers were white against the strap of her pack as she exited the cave.

        Fortunately the rest of the camp was silent as she passed through it. Most of the lean-tos were empty; Joan figured their occupants were with Waking Cloud, probably at the sacred grounds that the Sorrows preserved for their dead. Terrible, but fitting—Joan would not let Passing Dawn’s death be in total vain. There would be a fraction of justice restored to the world if this was the catalyst that allowed Joan to finally escape back to the Mojave, back to her _home_.

        With the camp empty, Joan saw no reason to be delicate; she waded out into the Eastern Virgin and sloshed noisily through the water before slowing when she reached the portion of the stream that crossed beneath the small camp that Joshua had made their own. There was nothing but silence up there, which Joan took as a good sign. As soon as she was far enough away that she thought she wouldn’t be detected, she sped up again.

        After a few minutes she was climbing onto the familiar dock, pausing to wring some of the excess water out of her dress. She ignored the glaring and omnipotent painting of Joshua Graham; with resolve, she began marching up the broken pavement of the road.

        Between the activity of the tribals and the caravans that now came through Zion, the land was fairly safe—especially during the night—and Joan was able to cross the valley with relative ease, even though her feet and lower back were screaming at her by the time she reached the rope bridge that would allow her to leave the park. A small price for freedom. She didn’t know how long it would take her to find a radio signal, but she would feel much safer as soon as she exited Zion. She supposed it was naïve to think that Joshua was restricted to the valley, but a thread of hope to keep her fueled was better than focusing on the bleak alternatives. At the very least, she thought it was likely that he wouldn’t be nearly as familiar with the lands outside of Zion, and thus she would be much more difficult to track, even with the practiced aid of the Dead Horse scouts.

        Joan had walked no more than a few feet across the half decaying planks that comprised the bridge when she heard a noise behind her; jerking her head around, she saw Joshua Graham charging at her, dressed only in his faded and torn jeans and his garment top, ghostly pale against the bandages that bound his body. He hadn’t even bothered to tug on his snakeskin boots—the binds that obscured his feet were spattered with mud and a feathery coating of dried sand and dirt.

        A strangled noise of shock leaped from her mouth and Joan spun and ran, causing the bridge to lurch and wobble from side to side. She grasped the rope handrail, willing herself not to look over the edge down at the body of water far below her. Only a few seconds passed before the bridge began to rock with greater fury; she looked over her shoulder and saw that Joshua was nearly on top of her.

        “What are you doing?” Joshua demanded, his blue eyes bright and icy under the cold moonlight. Joan froze in place, staring at him with her eyes wide; they were standing perhaps ten feet apart from each other on the bridge, which was still swinging back and forth from Joshua’s added weight.

        He was much faster than she was—even without being burdened with the nightmare he had seeded inside her—and Joan paused, the knuckles on her hands white as she clenched the strap at her shoulder.

        “How—”

        “I woke up and saw that you were gone; I knew you had taken Passing Dawn’s death badly, and I was worried that you would do something exactly like this,” Joshua cut her off. “How stupid do you think I am? There was food and water scattered all over the cave, and everything of _yours_ was missing. It wouldn’t take a prewar scientist to figure it out.”

        Joan paled as she stared at him, cursing herself for not at least trying to mask her hasty exit, anything that would have bought her even a few extra seconds of precious time.

        “I have to leave,” she said, forcing her voice to come out in something other than the whisper that it wanted to be. Joshua glared down on her.

        “How could you even think of leaving? In your condition? After everything we’ve been through together?”

        Joan wanted to shrink away from the fiery timber of his raised voice. She closed her eyes for a moment so that she wouldn’t have to look him in the face; it had taken on the quality of the crude mural, his eyes blazing and merciless. After taking a few fortifying breaths, she forced them open again.

        Randall Clark and Passing Dawn had not sacrificed everything for her to fold the moment Joshua presented opposition. She steeled herself, staring back into his furious eyes.

        “I am _not_ going to die here,” she said, her voice stronger than it had been moments ago. “I’ve endured too goddamn much to die in this valley: I took control of New Vegas, I killed Caesar and destroyed his Legion, _I_ seized Hoover Dam! My life is worth more than this—it’s worth more than dying in a fucking cave!”

        Joshua’s eyes softened somewhat as he stared at her, though they maintained their narrowed squint.

        “I understand that you’re scared,” he said after a moment. His voice had an uneven quality to it, as though he was trying to restrain his temper, and only just succeeding. “What are you planning to do then? Run away, and return to your doctors in the Mojave to give birth?”

        “ _No_ ,” Joan replied, tightening her grip on the strap digging into her shoulder. “I’m getting rid of this—this _thing_ , once and for all. I’m sorry, but this is a necessary evil. I’m doing what has to be done.”

        Joshua seemed to swell larger than life as his bandaged hands balled into fists, the scarring around his eyes burning with rage. His feet jerked forward as he rushed at her, and Joan snatched her sniper rifle off her shoulder.

        Though she had not so much as lain eyes on her rifle for several months, her muscle memory did not fail her: in a practiced sweep, she brought the butt of the rifle up to her shoulder as she took a deep inhale, her hands tight around the grips. Joshua was much too close for her to use the scope; she looked down the barrel instead, capturing his bandaged face in her sights. Somewhere beneath the detached resolve to preserve her life at any cost, she could feel a wail of despair rising in her, but she only needed to suppress it long enough to eliminate the threat confronting her—just as Boone had taught her.

        She pulled the trigger.

        It clicked and she depressed it again, and then several more times in the span of a second, her scarred forefinger striking the back of the trigger impotently.

        “You idiot!” Joshua shouted, tearing her sniper rifle out her hands; she squealed in pain as her forefinger caught against the trigger guard, just as it had the last time that this had happened.

        “Did you think I would leave your _loaded gun_ just lying around?” he snarled, seizing her upper arm and burying his reddened fingers deep into the flesh. Joan cried out in agony, and Joshua craned his arm back before hurling her beloved sniper rifle over the rope rail of the bridge. She bit back her cries of pain as she scrambled against him, trying to catch it as it sailed over the edge, but it was far too late—she could see it spinning end over end before finally striking the water far below them, too distant to even hear the splash. Joshua jerked her around and tore her pack off her shoulders before launching that over the side of the bridge as well.

        “No!” Joan shrieked, clawing desperately for it. Tears sprang to the corners of her eyes as she watched her last hope plummet away from her: some of the items had become dislodged as her pack careened through the air, and she could see the glowing screen of her Pipboy as it struck the bank below, casting up a pale cloud of dirt and sand.

        “ _Enough_ ,” Joshua growled, his fingers locking so tightly around Joan’s upper arm that the tip of his thumb overlapped his middle finger. Joan sobbed as she struggled against him.

        “Please don’t—”

        “ _No_ ,” Joshua said. The fire had departed his voice, leaving him hardened and icy toward her as he dragged her back across the bridge. “You’re staying in this valley, you’re giving me _my_ child, and you’re not leaving a _goddamned_ moment sooner.”

        The color fled out of Joan’s face as she recalled his earlier threat: _If I even suspect that you’re trying to bring harm to the life growing inside of you, to the child that is_ mine _, then you mark my words—I will ensure that you_ never _leave this valley._

        “Please don’t hurt me,” she whispered. Joshua was hauling her across the dusty path that led to the cliffs that overlooked the entirety of the valley; they couldn’t have been more than a few dozen feet from where she had first met Follows-Chalk. The tears cascaded down her cheeks faster to think of how drastically her life had changed since then, and that she would do anything to rewind time and go back to that moment.

_I would do everything differently._

        Joshua paused and looked down at her, his blue eyes narrow slits.

        “I’m not going to hurt you,” he spat, as though her question was too stupid to be taken seriously. “You’re too close to giving birth—though I make no promises if you don’t leave afterward. I’d rather raise my child alone, than curse him with a pathetic and whorish excuse for a mother like _you_.”

        Despite her desire to be free of this mess, Joshua’s words stabbed deep into her chest, and a fresh wave of tears welled in her eyes before pouring down her face. He twisted away from her and continued to drag her across the valley, his bare feet stomping heavily through the dirt and short bristly grass.

        Joshua dragged Joan all the way back to the Eastern Virgin, and by the time they reached the winding portion of the stream that opened into the Dead Horse’s camp, Joan’s arm had turned a bluish pale and gone numbly staticky, obscuring even the pain in her now twice broken forefinger. If Joshua was aware of the circulation he was cutting off from her arm, he didn’t seem to care.

        As they entered the cove, the Sorrows and Dead Horses watched them, their dark eyes bright and nervous; they huddled deeper into their lean-tos as he dragged Joan by them, as though the Burned Man’s wrath might be directed at them instead if he caught them staring. Joan cast her eyes to the ground, struggling not to trip over her own feet and trying to obscure her red eyes and the dried tracks of tears that covered her face as he pulled her into the Angel Cave.

        As he’d said, there were cans of preserved food littering the floor of his chamber—Joan swiftly looked away from them, as though acknowledging their presence would net her further punishment. Joshua dragged her all the way up to one of the crates lining the room before bending over and rummaging inside it. Immediately Joan tried to pry her arm—which had ceased to feel so much as pins and needles now—out of his hands.

        “No, please not again,” she cried as Joshua withdrew a pair of handcuffs. He had been deathly silent since he’d told her he’d rather raise their child alone, and he continued to ignore her as he spun her around and dragged her hands behind her back, locking them together. The cuffs bit into the swollen flesh of her wrists; some of the blood had finally begun to rush back into her forearm and hand, igniting the first swelling pain in her snapped forefinger.

        Grasping the chain of her handcuffs in one hand, Joshua searched through the crate a second time before withdrawing the second pair of cuffs. As he had months ago, he hauled her to the reloading bench before securing her to it; Joan slid down to the cold cavern floor, her short legs thrust out in front of her as her shoulder blades ground uncomfortably against the leg of the table.

        Joshua strode to the exit of the cave that led out to the overlook before returning a moment later, the furs from their lean-to bunched under his arm. He spread them out directly beside Joan before stepping up onto the ledge behind her; she heard the faint click of the oil lamp before the light in the cave vanished and he plunged them into darkness.

        A moment later she felt him settle onto the furs next to her, resting against her leg—he continued his icy silence toward her.

        In the darkness, claustrophobic anxiety began to flood Joan’s stomach and nerves, causing beads of sweat to appear along her hairline and in the small of her back; in an attempt to ground herself, she let her mind wander, desperate for distraction. The only thing she could think of was Joshua.

        Just twenty-four hours ago they had been laying beside each other under the stars, his strong arms wrapped protectively around her, sharing warmth and space in comfortable familiarity. Joan bowed her head, squeezing her eyes shut against the waves of misery and agony that lapped against her insides.

        Had it really been so bad?

        Sure, none of this had been her choice, but it hadn’t been _terrible_ , had it? The good times had finally begun to outnumber the bad, she thought. For the last couple months she’d even been _happy,_ at least most of the time. The corners of her lips dragged downward as she fought to hold back tears.

        She had loved Joshua so much, and it had seemed that he’d finally begun to return her affections. He hadn’t taken a single lover in years—at least that was what she had gleaned from him—so it must be that she was different from the other women that had been interested in him. She was special.

        She thought back to the day that Joshua had baptized her, in their own personal little lake of Mormon, and she pinched her lips together even harder. She hadn’t suffered any pain at all that day as he’d taken her there on the shore. He had elevated her with the blessings of God, and they had become equals. It felt sometimes that Joshua cared only for the huge swell of her belly, but that day proved that feeling was false—he wouldn’t have done any of that if he didn’t care about _her_ , her own peace, her own spiritual wellbeing; if he didn’t want her to become more like he was.

_So would it really have been so bad? Endure until the end… that was all I had to do_.

        She was torn—on the other hand, she would give every cap of her considerable fortune to be outside of Zion right now, traversing the narrow cliffs until she could finally call Yes Man to save her. How badly she missed him, and all of her friends back in the Mojave. How dearly she wished that she could be tasked with this burden in the safety of the Old Mormon Fort with Julie Farkas and Arcade to look after her. They would ensure her safety; they would know how to get rid of this.

        But, it occurred to her with dawning horror: maybe they _wouldn’t_ have been able to do anything after all. She knew that doctors had ways to get rid of unwanted pregnancies—but surely there was some time limit on that. Was it too late for her to have that kind of operation performed? She opened her eyes, staring out into the blackness of the cave; she saw nothing but thinly pulsing spots in the air as her eyes struggled to adjust.

        She had thrown away everything good that she had built up during the last few months, for nothing. Joshua might have understood it if she wanted to deliver their baby in the safety of a civilized hospital; of course he had been enraged at the thought of her killing his child.

        Her arms twitched—she had instinctively tried to move her hands to her stomach, to rest her palms against the curvature of it and embrace the warmth that seemed to radiate from within. It had never occurred to her before now how frequently a habit she had made of cupping her belly. The faint movement caused electric bolts of pain to shoot from her shoulders down to her fingertips, which had grown tingly and queer feeling from the tightness of the handcuffs.

        “Please,” she murmured into the darkness. “My arms hurt, and I can’t feel my hands very well…”

        She could tell by the stilted cadence of Joshua’s breathing that he was very much awake, lying stiffly beside her thigh. Several long minutes passed and he did not respond.

        Joan bowed her head, allowing the flood of tears that had been pent up to fall; they ran down her cheeks before speckling the dried palm print of Passing Dawn’s natal blood on the front of her dress.


	19. Friends

Chapter 19: Friends

_I'm the devil and the saint; and I've always been the same_

        At some point Joan must have fallen asleep. Her eyes fluttered open, and she blinked dazedly, the top half of her vision blurry; her glasses had slipped down her nose during the night as she sat slumped forward, supported only by the handcuffs lashing her wrists to the reloading bench. She slowly tilted her head back and winced from the biting pulses of pain that throbbed up her spine and neck. Her hands and feet also decided to waken: she grimaced at the stinging that wrapped around the pads of her feet, and her hands burned and tingled, her swollen fingers rubbing uncomfortably against each other.

        Minute shafts of sunlight penetrated the cracks in the ceiling of the cave, casting just enough illumination in the gloomy chamber for Joan to see that Joshua was still beside her. He was lying flat on his back on the fur he had spread out, without even a pillow to support his head. His chest rose and fell steadily; he was asleep.

        Joan’s eyes narrowed.

        Joshua Graham’s brow was as calm and peaceful as it had been the night before, as she plotted her escape. _He_ wasn’t saddled with an enormous belly that slowed him down, or caused him to have to urinate nearly every half hour. _His_ ankles weren’t swollen and tender, laced with spidery veins that stood out in glaring relief against the pale skin of his calves. _He_ didn’t have to fear that he might bleed out onto the floor of the cave in the span of minutes, for no goddamn good reason.

        All he’d had to do was fuck her and then stand back and watch the storm from a safe distance. Joan gritted her teeth at the miserable unfairness of it all. The sorrow that had overcome her the night before faded away and she seized on the indignant fire that now burned within her.

        Part of her was sorely tempted to kick her leg out and startle him awake, but, fire or not, she wasn’t quite bold enough to test him, the terrifyingly absent rage behind his eyes the previous evening still fresh in her mind; he hadn’t even looked so monstrous the night he had burned her.

        At the thought of her burned finger, she wriggled her hand. All of her fingers were puffy and swollen now, but that one immediately stood out, searing and aching, the blackened scars drawn painfully taut. She was certain that if she looked at her hands they would be purple.

        As if aware that she had been thinking unkind thoughts about him, Joshua began to stir. He lifted his bandaged hand to his eyes and rubbed at them, rumbling a small groan before sitting and propping himself up on the heel of his palm. He rubbed at his lower back, and for a moment he looked every inch the much older man that he was. As soon as he was finished, he turned his head and looked at her. There was no malice behind his eyes and—against Joan’s will—she felt a tiny sunburst of hope in her belly as she looked back at him.

        His gaze immediately shuttered and he looked away from her. Joan’s own stare hardened.

        “ _My finger_.” Her voice came out in a reedy croak, and she paused to clear her throat before proceeding. “It’s broken again. And I can’t feel my goddamn hands.”

        He looked back at her; the sneer on his face was apparent, even under the bandages.

        “You don’t need a finger to give birth,” he said coldly before picking himself up to his feet. Joan glared up at him. There was silence between them as Joshua hunted through a crate and produced fresh clothes. She looked pointedly away from him as he dressed himself.

        Back in his SLCPD vest and snakeskin shoes, he paused at the mouth of the cavern. He had his back to her, and his bandaged head was bowed as he stood with one hand braced against the stone wall of the chamber.

        “… I’ll send Waking Cloud up in just a minute.”

        Joan looked back at him as he disappeared, his shadow on the cavern wall following after him, just as she would have done if none of this had happened.

***

        As promised, Waking Cloud appeared in Joshua’s chamber of the Angel Cave about twenty minutes after Joshua had left it. Joan had not bothered attempting to free herself from the reloading bench this time—it had been difficult enough to manage back before she had spent several months being sedentary, growing fat and weak.

        She was determined to endure until the end this time.

        Waking Cloud’s eyes were dark and heavy this morning, her face ashen. When she saw Joan sitting on the floor, she picked up her pace and quickly crossed the cavern to join her side.

        “Joshua told me what happened,” she said. Joan rolled her eyes. _I bet he did—bet he gave you his own fucking version of events that conveniently leaves out what a monster he is_.

        Waking Cloud produced the small key that would unlock her handcuffs and Joan stared down at it.

_Or maybe he didn’t need to cast himself in a better light. Apparently nobody else sees any issue this_ , Joan thought, some of the punch going out of her. She leaned forward so that Waking Cloud could unbind her.

        “I don’t agree with this,” Waking Cloud said, as though she had been reading Joan’s thoughts. Her voice was stiff, and Joan sighed with relief that she seemed to be speaking honestly. The sigh morphed into a groan of pain as she pulled her arms in front of her. As she’d suspected, her hands were a pale, mottled purple, and her forefinger was crooked and hugely meaty in comparison to the rest of her swollen digits. Waking Cloud gently pulled her hand up and began to tape it to a stick, just as she’d done the last time.

        “He did tell me that you were trying to kill your baby,” Waking Cloud said. Joan looked away from her, and Waking Cloud sighed.

        “Joan, _no_ , you cannot do that,” she said in an exasperated moan. “All life is sacred, especially the life you are carrying. A little baby has no sin, has done nothing wrong to deserve that. I know that because it is inside of you, it does not feel real; but your baby _is_ real. It has a tiny beating heart, it can feel, is it a person. You would not slaughter a newborn baby, would you?”

        Joan jerked her face back around to Waking Cloud’s with indignant anger.

        “What the fuck, of course I wouldn’t.”

        “Then how is this any different? Some women give birth too soon. Your baby could be born right this instant, and it would be no different from any other, aside from being a little smaller.”

        Waking Cloud paused and her eyes darted away before she spoke again,

        “If you had only just begun to grow this child… then maybe it would be understandable.” The words came out quickly, as though they should be immediately swept beneath a rug and forgotten. Joan sighed. It really had been too late. Even if she’d escaped to Vegas, even if she was sitting in the middle of Julie Farkas’s office in the Old Mormon Fort right this second, the damage was already done.

        She was going to deliver this baby.

        “Speaking of,” Waking Cloud interrupted her thoughts. “We should do your exercises while I am here.” Her dark eyes shifted to the leg of the reloading bench and Joan pinched her eyes shut. She could imagine that she was going to be spending a lot of time in this spot for the next two months.

        Waking Cloud led Joan through the exercises that had become a daily part of her routine for the past several weeks: she breathed in and out with deliberate focus, her small chest expanding and deflating in time with Waking Cloud’s directions. Next she pulled Joan to her feet—which elicited another wince of pain, this time from her soles, which were raw and tender—and guided her through a series of simple stretches. These Joan performed with as much vigor as she could muster, determined to hold on to her health as best as she could.

_I’ll need it_ , she thought unhappily. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do when Joshua kicked her out of the camp as soon as he finally had what he had been waiting for. Her Pipboy had collided with the bank after quite a long fall, and she wondered if it was even functional now. She thanked God that it had avoided the water at least—with the slot that she had carved into the side of it, she was certain that a trip in the lake would have instantly killed.

        She pushed the thoughts away and focused on her exercises. Even if her Pipboy had been destroyed, or if she couldn’t recover it, she would find a way. She always did. She had survived being kidnapped and held hostage in the Sierra Madre with nothing but the clothes on her back and her wits to survive—she could endure this.

        A grim smile crossed her face as she thought back to Elijah. For an instant she could feel the curve of his spine underneath her feet, and the muscles in her arms steeling as her hands clenched the length of thinly rolled fabric that she had used to garrote him. He had not been the first person she had killed—not by a long shot—but he had certainly been the most intimate. She had lurked low in the vault of the grand hotel and resort, determined that she would lure him inside before sneaking past him and running for dear life and escaping.

        But as soon as she had laid eyes on him, something inside of her had snapped. It wasn’t enough to escape. She had been trapped in the Sierra Madre for nearly a week, running on only a handful of hours of sleep, and even less food and water. He had taken her suit from her, and put her in one of those disgusting oversized jumpsuits, marked with a crudely painted red X across the back, as though she was one of Caesar’s slaves. The biggest slap in the face was that he had even taken her glasses from her. She had had to stumble through that nightmare half blind and terrified that every shadow was one of those inhuman _things_ , hissing and jumping about. It wasn’t until she had encountered Dean Domino that she had managed to find another pair. They hadn’t been even close to the right prescription, but they had been enough for her to navigate the rest of the hellish city and complete Elijah’s insane tasks.

        As soon as she saw Elijah, something deep within her had shifted, and no, escape was _not_ enough; she desired so much more than mere _escape_. He had done this to her, and he needed to suffer the consequences. _How dare he_. She was the leader of New Vegas, and this would not stand. He had entered the vault, and the moment he turned his back to look around for her, she had jumped on him, seized with red hot rage, animalistic and savage. He had put up a tremendous fight, crashing around the vault and trying to buck her off with terrified urgency, but it hadn’t been enough. Eventually he had collapsed to his knees, his hands clawing and tearing at the thin leathery skin of his throat, hard enough that he had drawn his own blood.

        Joan rode him until he collapsed to the floor, bearing down on his ribcage with her full weight and lamenting the fact that she didn’t weigh even more. She would have eaten a full course meal and guzzled a gallon of water in preparation if she had known what would transpire. She didn’t release her grip until he finally stopped moving, not even giving so much as a postmortem jerk or twitch.

        Her hands and forearms had ached for days afterward.

        “Are you alright?” Waking Cloud asked her, jerking Joan back to the Angel Cave, and back to her current predicament. She blinked at Waking Cloud before stretching her fingers to the ceiling as she was supposed to be doing.

        “I’ll be fine,” she said. And she would be. Recalling that she had survived odds even greater than this had fortified her, and she plunged herself into her exercises with renewed focus.

        When they finished, Waking Cloud clapped Joan on the back.

        “You have some color in your face; that is good! Do not worry. Things will not be so bad forever. Joshua needs some time to cool down, but he will come back around.”

        Joan looked away, some of the determined energy flooding out of her. She did not possess the same malice for Joshua that she had had for Elijah. She doubted she could muster it even if she wanted to.

        Deep within her heart, she forgave him for everything he had done to her. She didn’t see eye to eye with him, but she could see the reasoning and logic for everything that he did, and could understand his motivations, even if they came at her personal detriment. If she were in his shoes, she couldn’t say that she would have done any differently or any better.

        Waking Cloud gently chucked her under her chin.

        “Everything will be alright,” she said, looking Joan in the eyes. “He that endureth in faith shall overcome the world.”

        Joan nodded at her as Joshua Graham entered the chamber. His eyes passed over Joan before landing on Waking Cloud.

        “Is everything alright?” he asked her. Waking Cloud left Joan’s side, crossing the cave to meet Joshua with the cuff key in her hand. Joan immediately concealed her hands behind her back, as though preventing Joshua from seeing them would make him forget they existed.

        “She is fine. Be _easy_ with her—she is seven months along, after all. October is more than halfway over now, and she will be giving birth before you know it,” she said sternly. Joshua plucked the key out of her hand without saying anything.

        Waking Cloud left the cave and seemed to take all of Joan’s resolve and fortification with her; Joan stared down at Joshua’s snakeskin shoes as he approached her.

        “Turn around,” he ordered. None of the hard edge had softened from his voice. Joan did as she was told—in a moment she could hear the metallic _click-click-click_ of the cuffs securing her wrists. Fortunately he took some mercy on her and didn’t clasp them nearly as tightly as he had the night before. He pulled her to the reloading bench and was about to lash her to it when Joan resisted against him. His hand immediately steeled against her, his red fingertips digging into her shoulder.

        “I—I have to use the bathroom,” she said, hot color rising in her cheeks. It was not a lie this time—her bladder had lurked unnoticed as she lost herself in her exercises and memories, but it had made itself known again, squeezing uncomfortably inside of her.

        Joshua made a noise of resigned aggravation.

        “Fine,” he said. He looked at her for a moment, as if debating what to do with her. Then his hands were on her again, and with a twist of his key her wrists were free once more. Joan rubbed at them.

        “I don’t want the Dead Horses or Sorrows to see you like that,” Joshua said, marching her out of the cave with his hand locked over her elbow. “They look to me to set an example for them; it wouldn’t do well for them to think that this is an appropriate way to treat their wives.”

        Joan looked up at him with naked disgust.

        “If you hadn’t attempted to _kill my son_ , I wouldn’t be forced to do this,” he snapped. “It’s not enjoyable for me, but you’ve made this a necessity.”

        Joan opened and closed her mouth, unable to rebut his argument. She narrowed her eyes instead.

        “How do you know it’ll be a son?” she asked suspiciously. They were marching into the outskirts of the camp now.

        “I don’t,” Joshua replied. “But I hope it will be.”

        Joan snorted at him as they came to a stop and Joshua finally released her. She had begun to hike up her dress before noticing that Joshua was still standing beside her. She locked up, the hem of her dress suspended above her knees.

        “Go on,” Joshua said. His hands were thrust into his pockets, his pale eyes fixed on a point in the horizon above her head.

        “You’re not going to leave.”

        “No, I’m not. You’ve tricked me twice now, and I’m not going to let it happen a third time.”

        Joan flushed hot and red, from her neck all the way up to her ears. Her bladder seemed to shrink in response to this revelation, and she continued to stand there, her knuckles white against the fabric of her dress.

        “I… I don’t think I can,” she said quietly after a minute. Joshua continued to stare out, looking at anything but her.

        “Well you have to. I’m not coming back out here again in five minutes when you’ve decided that you _can_. This isn’t anything I haven’t seen or heard before, I assure you.”

        Joan gritted her teeth, burning with embarrassment.

        “Can you at least turn around?” Her voice came out in a rattle through her tensed jaw. Joshua hesitated before seizing her wrist and then doing as she asked, his heeled boots pivoting in the sand as he faced the opposite direction.

        “Oh come on,” Joan groaned. “You’re faster than I am, I couldn’t go anywhere if I wanted to!”

        “You’ve brought this on yourself,” Joshua replied, sounding as thoroughly unhappy about this as she was. Joan groaned again before finally hiking up her dress—awkwardly, with only one hand—and squatting.

        Several long, tense moments lapsed before a thin trickle came out of her, and she squeezed her eyes shut, suppressing the sob that tried to claw its way out of her throat. Joshua had stolen much from her, but the last shreds of her privacy and dignity came as a harsh blow. It lasted for nearly a minute before finally stopping.

        “Alright, clean yourself up,” Joshua said stiffly, releasing her wrist. Joan finished before standing upright once more, letting her dress fall around her calves. She stared at the ground, the corners of her lips trembling as Joshua steered her back to the Dead Horse’s camp.

        She had taken a glance at her Pipboy the night before as she shoved it into her pack, to make sure that it was still functional after being separated from her for so many months.

        The date was October 19th, 2282—one year to the day since she had woken up in Doc Mitchell’s house, with only a jagged scar and a delivery note for one oversized platinum poker chip to set the course for her new life.


	20. Can't Stop Me Now

Chapter 20: Can’t Stop Me Now

_I’m not trying to be your hero; it’s the only way that I know_

        A miserable month dragged by, although to Joan it felt longer than all seven months that had preceded it combined. Every time she thought her stomach couldn’t possibly swell any larger, it expanded further outward, practically large enough to eclipse the sun. Her hips ached constantly: not just from the splayed position of her legs against the floor of the Angel Cave, where she was forced to sleep each night, but also from the shifting of her pelvic bone, to accommodate her upcoming birth. She didn’t walk so much as waddle about now—not that Joshua permitted her to do much waddling—and she spent most of her time by the fire in the center of the camp, with Joshua sitting so close beside her that their thighs pressed against each other. She wore the handcuffs nearly constantly, although Joshua had finally taken some pity on her and allowed her to keep her hands in front of her, sparing her throbbing shoulder blades. The other small mercy he afforded her was the restoration of her privacy as she relieved herself—after the first time, it seemed that he viewed the act as much of a punishment for himself as it was for her, and so he had given it up entirely. He had also elected to free her hands during mealtimes, rather than debasing both of them by spoon feeding her.

        Plates were piled high with food on the picnic tables in the center of the camp, and Joshua and Joan—as well as the rest of the Dead Horses and Sorrows—were seated there now, eating lunch. As usual, Joan had a small bounty in front of her. Vital nutrients for the baby, Waking Cloud and Joshua had beaten into her skull. The voracious appetite that had seized her prior to Passing Dawn’s death had disappeared though, and it was a struggle to choke down the feast that Joshua provided for her.

        “Eat,” Joshua reminded her curtly. Joan was awkwardly holding a spoon—her finger was taking longer to mend this time, unsurprisingly—while dragging it around the bottom of one of the bowls in front of her. She took a small bite to appease him.

        Though not as frighteningly icy to her as he had been the night she tried to flee Zion, he had not warmed back up to her, as Waking Cloud predicted he would. He looked after her, he made sure that she was fed, and he saw that she performed her exercises, but that was it. He rarely spoke to her outside of mealtimes, and even that was usually just to prod her into eating more.

        “You’ve barely touched your food,” he said, a few minutes having dragged by since the last time he nagged her. Joan was in the middle of scooping up a bite of porridge when sloshing footsteps interrupted the meal. Joshua craned his head, looking behind them.

        A group of Dead Horse scouts was stepping out of the Eastern Virgin and shaking off their bare legs, shivering from the coldness of the water. Joan had twisted her head to see what the commotion was before turning back to her food. The scouts came in and out of the camp daily, and the reports they gave Joshua were dull, usually comprised of nothing more than the migratory habits of various beasts across the valley, or noting the occasion passing caravan.

        “Hoy,” one of them called.

        “Anything of interest?” Joshua asked, turning back to the table and taking another bite of his own food. The scouts had come close to the picnic table and were hovering over Joshua, looking antsy. Joshua finished chewing before turning around and looking pointedly at the man that had spoken.

        “What is it? Did you see the 80s again?” he asked. The scout appeared to be nervous, and he swallowed before continuing, speaking slowly as he tried to find the appropriate words in English.

        “No, not the 80s. Another tribe. They are dressed mighty strange, Joshua. They wear funny helmets, and masks over their eyes, all red and black—”

        Joan’s spoon clattered to the table, spattering porridge across it. Joshua had reacted similarly—he’d shot up from the table to stand, staring at the scout with intensity.

        “How many were there?”

        “They are not so many, only…” he paused, gesticulating helplessly with his hands before giving up and speaking in Res. “ _Twintig_ , perhaps? Not half as many as us.”

        Joan twisted to look at Joshua, her face chalky.

        The scout paused, his eyes bouncing nervously from Joshua to Joan before landing on Joshua again. “They were coming towards Zion. Maybe only a day or two away.”

        Joan gasped, the rest of the color flooding out of her face as ice shot up her fingertips and into her palms. The muscles in Joshua’s forearms had tensed and flexed as he stood silently before he finally spoke again.

        “ _Legion_.”

        It was almost more of a growl than a word, spoken with venomous hatred. He abruptly turned to face Joan, and she flinched away from the fire in his eyes.

        “I thought you said you killed Edward.”

        “I did!” she responded. “I saw my friend shoot him in the head with my own two eyes.”

        The crow’s feet around Joshua’s eyes gathered balefully as he squinted at her, and she shrank further away from him.

        “You said that _you_ were shot in the head. Clearly you’re still up and walking around,” he accused.

        Joan’s gaze hardened.

        “I cut Caesar’s fucking head off and stuck it on a pike in the middle of his burning camp.”

        Joshua’s eyebrows shot up at this revelation, and the threat of the Legion seemed to be temporarily forgotten.

        “You did _what_?”

        “You heard me,” Joan said, tilting her chin up and glaring at Joshua, feeling for the first time in months that she had the upper hand, as meaningless and petty as it was. “Unlike Caesar, I don’t take half measures; I made _goddamn_ sure he was dead.”

        Joshua’s shoulders stiffened at her implication before he caught himself, returning to the crisis at hand. He shot her one final glare before twisting back to the scout. The two exchanged words in Res, speaking rapidly as Joan’s eyes bounced back and forth between them. It was all gibberish to her untrained ear.

        After a few tense minutes, Joshua turned back to the camp.

        “The Legion is coming,” he announced. A few of the older Dead Horse warriors immediately looked concerned, but most of them were younger, and just stared blankly back at Joshua.

        “My old… tribe,” he said haltingly. “They must have learned that I’m still in Zion, and they’re coming. The scouts think that they’re only a few days away at most. If we leave this evening, we can catch them; they cannot be allowed into the valley—”

        “Wait,” Joan cut him off. Joshua snapped his head down to look at her, his eyes flashing at being interrupted.

        “ _What_?”

        “Thousands of them were slaughtered during the battle for the Dam,” Joan said, staring determinedly back into Joshua’s pale eyes. “I was there. I saw it, and I know exactly what happened. There were some remnants that scattered, but there can’t possibly be many of them. What if this is just a scouting party? That’s how Caesar operated—”

        “I _know_ how Edward operated,” Joshua lashed back at her, causing her to flinch from him again. “I think I understand more about how the Legion was run than _you_ ever could.”

        A twisting sensation had settled in Joan’s stomach, and it had nothing to do with Joshua’s callous rebuttal of her suggestion. She couldn’t place her finger on it, but something sounded suspicious about the Legion showing up out of nowhere.

        “How would they even know you’re here?” she asked. Joshua glanced to the sky as if imploring God to grant him patience.

        “Edward must have learned what happened to the White Legs.”

        Joan bit her lip, worrying it between her teeth.

        “I don’t know… why here, why now? Who would even be leading them? You’ve been in Zion for just about a year now. And from what I gathered from Caesar, all the Legionaries are terrified of you. It was _his_ grudge,” she said.

        Joshua shook his head at her.

        “There’s no shortage of people that want me dead,” he replied. “Edward might have attempted to strike my name from history, but I know that rumors of me still circulate. Legion assassins came—none survived, of course, but I’m not surprised that some of them would still want me dead, even independently of Edward.”

        Joan cast her eyes down to her plate, picking at the cuff of her sleeve. Something about this still didn’t sit right with her, even though Joshua had a point.

        Joshua looked back up and continued speaking to the camp.

        “Prepare yourselves—we leave this evening. Pack enough supplies to last a few days. I won’t see this monument to God’s glory sullied with Legion.”

        “Tonight?” Joan balked. Joshua directed his steely gaze back to her.

        “Yes, tonight. I don’t believe I was unclear about what I plan to do.”

        “You don’t even know how many of them there are, though. Wouldn’t it be smarter to send a scouting party of our own to see what they’re doing?” Her words sounded alien to herself, as if she was defending the Legion somehow; she wondered if she had grown soft, sitting here in the safety of Zion, fat and pregnant and lazy. _A year ago I would have begged to go with him_ , she thought bleakly. Still, the knot in the pit of her stomach persisted, and she couldn’t bring herself to ignore it.

        Joshua’s eyes grew icy again.

        “You’ve seen what they’re capable of. If they’re stupid enough to come after me, then I’m happy to finish the job that _you_ started. _No half measures_ ,” he finished snidely. Joan flushed pink, staring sullenly at him.

        Joshua stared back at her before softening.

        “Besides… I can’t let anything happen to the baby. I can’t afford for them to enter Zion; I know all too well what would happen to you and the Sorrows if they managed to overrun the camp. It’s wiser to be proactive, as you should know by now.”

        Ordinarily she would agree with that sentiment wholeheartedly, but the twisting in her stomach was shouting at her now, furious enough that she had begun to sweat, gooseflesh pricking under the sleeves of her dress. Joshua took off—leaving her wrists uncuffed, thankfully—and began to prepare for the Dead Horse’s departure.

        Dusk fell and Joan idled around the fire—November had come, and brought with it colder temperatures than she had ever experienced. A pale dusting of frost iced the plants and trees outside in the mornings now, which Joan would have been fascinated by if Joshua hadn’t continued to be so callous toward her, leeching away her ability to be carefree and joyful about small things.

        As she sat by the fire, her mind ran around in circles. Something was wrong, although she couldn’t put her finger on what. She couldn’t disagree with anything Joshua was saying: it was all perfectly logical and rational, but the feeling came from deeper within. As she sat gazing into the fire, her palms pressed firmly around her stomach, it finally dawned on her.

        One notable person had been missing on the night of the Fortification Hill Massacre. She hadn’t thought of him in months, but the scent of fire triggered her memory: burning tires, smoke filling the air, the agonized groans of Powder Gangers lashed to poles, and strange men in black and red football pads.

        Vulpes Inculta.

        She shook her head, dismissing the thought. She hadn’t seen him since the day she had awakened the army of Securitrons from their slumber beneath Fortification Hill, and even then he hadn’t said a word to her—he had stood beside Caesar with his hands clasped behind his back, staring stoically at her.

        But that wasn’t quite true, she recalled, her cheeks growing pink with irritation at the memory.

        She had been feeling pretty damn good that day. For the first time in her short life, she felt a little less alone, having a highflyer like Robert House at her back. He had directed her to go to Fortification Hill—very much against Boone’s better judgment—and assured her that she would be safe. She had been apprehensive, having witnessed the fate of the women of Nipton; it wasn’t difficult to imagine herself being enslaved and passed around for the fun of the Legionaries before being brutally killed. House had brushed away her worries dismissively.

_You’ll be fine_ , he had said. _Caesar will want you to use the Chip to destroy what’s under the bunker—brute though he may be, even_ he _won’t harm a hair on the head of someone that’s just performed a favor for him, and would be potentially willing to perform more. Play nice, and he’ll let you walk right back out the way you came. If he doesn’t, you’ll have an entire army of Securitrons just beneath you, ready to rise to your defense_. _Now go on then, there isn’t time to waste_.

        A lie, she had figured out later—one that had nearly gotten her killed, although even Joan could admit it had really been her own fault. She had stood before Caesar, and found that he was surprisingly affable and easy to talk to. They spoke at length about his grand plans for New Vegas, and she had listened to him go on a heated ramble about the inefficiencies of the NCR; she found she couldn’t exactly disagree with him, given everything she’d seen of them. Still, the Legion disgusted her, and she was equally repulsed that a heartless monster like Vulpes Inculta had the privilege of standing by his right hand side.

        When Caesar had asked Joan to continue to work for him, she’d brazenly laughed in his face and refused him. What happened next was, in hindsight, quite obvious, but it had stunned her into frozen terror all the same. Caesar’s congenial nature had flipped off like a light switch, and suddenly he wasn’t a polite, elderly man anymore—the savage warlord inside rose to the surface.

_Mark my words, you piece of shit: this is the last time you will ever refuse to perform an order I've given you_ , he’d barked, radiating power and fury. _If you meant what you said, you best be on your way, and at good speed. And forget all that I could have given you; if you ever—_ ever _—disobey me again, I will order my Praetorians to hack you to death with their machetes for my entertainment!_

        Joan’s knees had turned to something softer than bone, lighter than gas; for a light headed moment she thought she would faint. A small noise had caught her attention then, and she’d jerked her head up.

        Vulpes Inculta had removed one of his pale hands from behind his back, and it was clasped in a fist against his chin, the knuckle of his forefinger resting against his lips. His sharp blue eyes had lit up with mirth, and he was restraining a muffled laugh. Joan’s face had heated up with furious terrified color, and she’d turned and sped out of the camp, gooseflesh rising along her arms and thighs as she passed by scores of Legionaries, uncomfortably aware of how severely outnumbered she was.

        For the first time in months, Joan instinctively tried to draw her knees up to her chest, as she used to do to comfort herself when she was anxious. Her enormous belly blocked the way however, and her heels slid back out across the sand. She had never seen Vulpes Inculta after that, and even though she didn’t really know him, he had unnerved her. The rest of the Legionaries bowed and scraped and cowered in front of Caesar—but he alone had been bold enough to laugh at her while standing right next to him, even as furious as his master was.

        Joan heard the muted pounding of soled shoes behind her, and she turned; Joshua was cutting across the camp with a pack slung over his shoulder. He noticed her looking at him, and adjusted his course, approaching her.

        “I’m about to leave,” he said sternly as he looked down at her. “Obviously I can’t drag you across the wilderness with me—I’m going to have to place my trust in God that you won’t try to leave again while I’m gone. I would pray that by now you understand the gravity of what will happen if I arrive back in Zion and Waking Cloud tells me that you’ve run off.”

        Joan stared back at him; the thought of escape hadn’t even crossed her mind.

        “I’m not going to leave.”

        Some of the hardness in Joshua’s brow melted away, though he still looked suspicious.

        “Good. I’m not going to bother handcuffing you while I’m gone, either; I’m sure Waking Cloud would just unlock you as soon as I’m out of the valley. She said she’d keep an eye on you while I’m away, and I’m going to hold her to that. Don’t let her—or _me_ —down. You only have one month left to endure—I have faith that you can make it.”

        At Joshua’s words, Joan felt the same peculiar sensation of unease in the pit of her stomach.

        “Joshua.”

        He had just pivoted to leave, but he twisted back around to face her, his eyebrows arched at how intimately she had addressed him.

        “I don’t like this,” she continued, hoping that he would grasp the sincerity of her words. “Something about this feels _wrong_. Please, you’ve got to reconsider. Just stay one more night and plan this out, _please_. I don’t know why I feel this way, I don’t know if it’s some kind of instinct or—”

        Joshua’s brows lowered once again and he spoke over her, cutting her off.

        “You don’t have a maternal bone in your body—don’t pretend to have some sort of intuition or instinct _now_.”

        Joan recoiled from him, her face flashing with hurt before she gathered herself again.

        “I’m trying to help—”

        “I know what I’m doing—I spent a regrettable portion of my life doing exactly this. Stay here, continue to eat well, and do whatever Waking Cloud tells you to do. I’ll be back in a few days.”

        He paused before looking down at her again, and this time his expression softened fully. He hesitated a moment before reaching down and gently brushing his scarred fingertips across her belly; it was the first time he had touched it since the night she nearly escaped from Zion.

        “I pray that God watches over you while I’m gone. You’ll be in good hands with the Sorrows,” he said. Though his palm was pressed to her stomach, he was looking into Joan’s eyes. He lingered for a moment longer before pulling his hand away and taking off, leading all the men of the camp into the Eastern Virgin and departing the valley.


	21. Destruction

Chapter 21: Destruction

_I've been sent to torch the palace down in broad daylight_

        The sun had long set, bathing the valley in inky shadows. The only light in the Dead Horse’s camp came from the fire in the center of it, which Joan was still huddled close to. A set of furs was wrapped around her shoulders, and she continued to rub at her sleeve cuff—which was noticeably more worn and thin than the rest of the fabric of her dress—with absentminded worry.

        She wondered if she should have told Joshua that Vulpes Inculta had escaped the Fortification Hill Massacre; she supposed it didn’t matter since Joshua probably wouldn’t have listened to her, given his seemingly endless fount of anger and mistrust for her.

        She had only met Vulpes Inculta three times anyway—the only reason he was even noteworthy to her was because of their first meeting at Nipton. There was nothing exceptional about him otherwise, at least as far as she could tell. If he really was Caesar’s top spy—frumentarius, he’d called himself—then he was surely used to blending into different cultures and masking his identity. If he was smart, he was probably sitting on a beach in the NCR, drinking alcohol, smoking cigarettes, and enjoying all of the other fun things Caesar had forbidden.

        Not entirely different from the limitations that Joshua also imposed on himself and his tribe, it occurred to her.

        The thought faded as Joan felt a stirring sensation from within her belly. She had been sitting with her hands laced together on top of her stomach, but she separated them and splayed her fingertips across the swollen mass of it.

        “Are you nervous too?” she muttered. It felt silly to speak to herself in such a way, but with Joshua gone, she needed some small part of him to hold on to. Terrible as he was capable of being, he still carried a sort of indestructible air about him, which made her feel safe—at least safe from any kind of _outside_ danger.

        As if in response, she felt a tiny movement brush across the inside of her stomach, just visible beneath the black fabric of her dress. Joan bowed her head before wrapping her arms around her belly and hunching over it. The awful feeling was persisting; the camp felt lonely and empty without Joshua in it, even though he’d spent most of the last month ignoring her.

        The absence of all the men was strange, really. All that was left was about fifteen women. Most of them were Sorrows, although a few were from Dead Horse Point, as Passing Dawn had been. The entire camp was blanketed with a vague air of disquiet—or at least it appeared that way to Joan. Most of the Sorrows had gone ahead and retired to their lean-tos, seeing no point in staying awake without the company of their husbands or sons.

        From behind her back, Joan heard the sound of splashing footsteps and she turned around; bright hope had ignited in her stomach at the thought of Joshua returning prematurely, deciding to listen to her after all.

        It was Waking Cloud, walking up to the camp with her children, the youngest of which was strapped to her chest in a sling. She waved at Joan.

        “Strange without the men, eh?” she said, coming to sit beside her. Her two younger children plopped down in the sand and began to draw lines in it, playing a simple game with each other. Joan looked at the youngest out of the corner of her eye. What had once been a very small child—practically a baby—had grown during the past year. She was leaning against Waking Cloud’s collarbone, her thumb thrust into her mouth as she dozed. Her head was covered in a thick tangle of black hair that had just begun to brush her tiny shoulders.

        “I thought I would stay in the Dead Horse’s camp, since Joshua is away,” she continued, idly stroking her daughter’s back. “It is a bit too soon for you to give birth—I hope, anyway—but I would rather _err on the side of caution_ , as Daniel would say.”

        Joan looked back into the fire, scrubbing her thumb across the thin layer of bandages that enveloped her forefinger.

        “Joshua will be fine. He always is,” Waking Cloud said, studying Joan as they sat side by side. “Why don’t you go to sleep? He will not be back for at least a couple of days. It is too late to do anything to stay busy, so the next best thing is rest. Besides…”

        She paused, her eyebrows tilting sardonically.

        “You should enjoy your time free, yes? Got to feel good to not have your wrists together.” Waking Cloud raised her hands before pressing them together in an imitation of Joan in her handcuffs. Joan gave her a small laugh.

        “True. I guess I should appreciate the small things,” she said, stretching her palms out above her head before spreading them far apart. Waking Cloud was right. Nothing bad had happened the last time Joshua and the Dead Horses left the camp to defend it. The baby— _thing_ , she mentally corrected herself—wasn’t due for another month or so. With Joshua gone, she was free to lounge around as she liked, without her hands locked in front of her or Joshua’s nearly suffocating constant presence.

        Indeed, it occurred to her—this would be the first time in a month that she would be able to sleep unhindered. Joshua locked her to the reloading bench each night—though he allowed her to lie down now, instead of sitting up—but tonight she would be able to sleep wherever she liked. She looked around the camp until her eyes landed on the lean-to that Joshua used to sleep in. She could sleep there. All the other women of the camp would be close by, and it was close to the large fire.

        But, she thought with a blush, that wasn’t _really_ where she wanted to spend the night. It was girlish and silly, but she was drawn to the small camp that Joshua had made their own outside of the Angel Cave.

        They had been happy there.

        Pulling herself to her feet, Joan yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.

        “That’s not a bad idea. What will you do?” she asked Waking Cloud.

        “There are plenty of open beds tonight, with the men gone,” she replied. Then, to Joan’s surprise, she saw a faint reddish glow appear in Waking Cloud’s cheeks. Waking Cloud looked away before giving Joan a small smile.

        “I have grown… a little close to one of the Dead Horses. I think I will sleep in his lean-to tonight,” she said, sounding for a moment much younger than she actually was. Joan returned her smile, and it occurred to her that it was probably the first time in a month that she had used those particular facial muscles. She bent and gave Waking Cloud a small pat on her shoulder.

        “Wow, that’s fantastic,” she said. Though happy for Waking Cloud—and feeling slightly relieved, given that she had helped Daniel conceal the fate of Waking Cloud’s husband from her—she wasn’t sure what else to say. Waking Cloud didn’t seem to mind, her own smile broadening in response.

        “You have a good night, Joan. Sleep well, and we will get to work in the morning. You can still help peel the vegetables, even if you have to sit while doing it,” she said. Joan nodded before turning on her heel and entering the Angel Cave.

        She gathered up the furs that Joshua slept on and hauled them outside to the small camp that overlooked the Eastern Virgin. It was quite cold and gusty up here now; she set the furs down before kneeling in front of the empty fire pit, and within a few minutes it was crackling and alive again. _Good to know that I’ve still got it_ , Joan thought, dusting her palms against each other and standing back, enjoying the warmth against her ankles and shins. Next she turned to the lean-to and arranged the furs inside it, spreading them out neatly.

        Without thinking, she began to unzip her dress before stopping herself. She hadn’t slept undressed since the night she’d tried to run away. She lowered her arms, letting them dangle by her sides as she was struck with a pang of sadness and regret.

        She wished Joshua was here. For an aching moment she wished she hadn’t run away at all, and that he was here by her side, keeping her warm with the heat that radiated from his burned body, his arms around her, his palms on her belly. She let her own hands wander to her stomach, coming to rest where his would have been.

        A different pang struck her then; that in just a little more than a month, he’d surely make her leave. He would take the baby and shove her out of the camp, without so much as her sniper rifle to defend herself with, or her Pipboy to guide her. Her fingers pressed into the taut skin of her belly. For a hot blooded moment everything felt unfair again. She had carried this thing inside of her for eight months now. Joshua couldn’t grasp what it was like to feel it move inside of her, to rearrange her hips and organs, to share her body in the most intimate way possible.

        Joan snorted, pushing the saccharine thoughts away. _Don’t be an idiot_ , she thought as she knelt and crawled into the furs. _I never wanted this anyway. Let him have it. I might have carried it for nine months, but he’ll be saddled with it for the next twenty years. Let’s see how well he likes the burden of carrying it around with him and feeding it and_ —

        She cut her own thoughts off, her eyes shooting open wide. What if he didn’t do those things, but instead enlisted one of the Sorrows to do them for him?

        For a terrible moment she thought she would be sick. She held no malice for any of the women of the Sorrows, but the thought of one of them caring for the child inside her twisted her stomach as violently as if she’d been stabbed. Her hands darted to her belly before she slammed the door shut on her emotions, shoving them deep down inside herself. She burrowed into the furs with stubborn determination.

_Do not be an idiot_ , she reiterated hotly to herself. _Joshua can do whatever the hell he wants with it. When I’m back in Vegas, it will be as though none of this ever happened. A distant dream, a bad nightmare, whatever. If he has another woman care for it, so what? I never asked for any of this._

        With that thought, she tugged off her glasses before withdrawing further into the furs, breathing in the scent of Joshua Graham as she fell asleep.

***

        The fire in the small camp had long gone out, bathing the overlook in blackness. High above the camp was an empty gap in the lush field of stars—a new moon.

        Joan stirred, restless in her sleep. From within her dreams, she thought she could hear the sound of rushing water. No, not rushing water, she thought; splashing water, and people—a lot of people—walking through it.

        She jolted awake, breathless. Far below the overlook she could hear a mass of footsteps sloshing through the stream. Heavy footsteps. Much too heavy for the bare feet of the Dead Horses. Joan scrambled out of the lean-to and thrust her glasses back onto her nose, her face as white as a sheet.

        Legionaries.

        Without a doubt, she knew it. Her gut had not lied to her. Dropping into a crouch—awkward and uncomfortable now, with her bulbous stomach in the way—she crept to the edge of the overlook and peered over the side. She clapped her hand over her mouth.

        Dozens of Legionaries had entered the Eastern Virgin, stretching so far back that she couldn’t even see all of them beyond the bend of the canyon wall. They were illuminated only by starlight, reflecting over the water and bouncing back up their ghostly skirt clad legs. Joan retreated from the edge of the cliff, her hands feeling as though they’d been encased in blocks of ice.

        Legionaries, in Zion. And Joshua was gone.

        A trap.

        She squeezed her eyes shut, her chest rising and falling rapidly with terror. She knew something had been wrong. For a moment she couldn’t fathom why a group of Legionaries—one much more sizable than what the scout had reported to Joshua—would be approaching the camp, but it dawned on her.

        The Legion used women not just as slaves, but as breeding cattle. So many men had died at Hoover Dam, it stood to reason that whoever had decided to lead them was raiding the camp for the women and children. She slapped her hand over her mouth again in horror. How obvious it seemed now. Joshua had been led away, leaving them defenseless.

        Her fingertips curled against her lips before clenching into a fist.

_No_ , she thought, righteous anger exploding inside her belly. _We are_ not _helpless_.

        She hauled herself to her feet and dashed inside the Angel Cave, seizing the lamp on Joshua’s work table by the handle and carrying it with her, her bare feet slapping against the stone floor of the cave as she ran outside.

        She looked around. The Legionaries would be at the camp within minutes—she could hear the splashes of their heavy footsteps even from here—and she wasn’t sure what to do for a moment. She shook her head. As much as she would like to rouse each woman quietly to set up an ambush for them, there just wasn’t time.

        “GET UP! EVERYONE GET UP _NOW_ , WE’RE BEING ATTACKED!” she screamed, projecting her voice as loudly as she could. Around her the women shot up in their lean-tos, calling out in Res. Waking Cloud was the fastest to react—she was on her feet by the time Joan had  finished shouting, and was ushering her children into the arms of one of the Sorrows, ordering them to run up into the cliffs for safety. They obeyed her and she dashed to Joan’s side, her tanned skin ashen.

        “Quick,” Joan said, looking up at her face. “Tell the women to get inside the Angel Cave. I have a plan.”

        For a moment Waking Cloud’s face was seized with panic, and then, like Joan, the panic dissolved, her chin setting with determination.

        She turned around and shouted at the remaining women in Res before dashing into the Angel Cave, and Joan tore off after them, only slowed down slightly by her enormous belly.

        As soon as she entered the cave, she gasped with exhilaration—the Sorrows were already arming themselves, pulling on the Yao Guai gauntlets that they had once been known for. Joan was relieved that she wouldn’t have to motivate them into defending themselves—Joshua had been wrong about them, they were far from incapable.

        Joan approached Waking Cloud, who was just tightening the straps of her gauntlet against her forearm. She turned to face Joan, looking sharply down at her.

        “Plan or no, you should not be on your feet like this—you need to go up the cliffs with the other women, it is too dangerous to be here in your conditi—”

        Joan thrust up her hand, and Waking Cloud immediately fell silent.

        “Defend yourselves as best as you can,” Joan ordered; all the women in the cave turned to look at her, their eyebrows raised. “Let them come to us—we can use the entrance of the cave as a choke point. The Legionaries won’t bother wasting precious ammunition on a group of women—they most likely want to capture us and enslave us anyway. Don’t underestimate them, but you can count on the fact that they’re _damn_ sure going to underestimate you. Fight with everything you’ve got, and don’t hold back.”

        She spun on her heel and strode to the winding corridor that would take her back up to Joshua’s chamber. The bulk of her plan relied heavily on one thing, and she was praying that the gamble she was taking was going to pay off. Waking Cloud was still relaying her translated orders when Joan entered the chamber, making a beeline for the shelf that protruded further out than the others; from behind it she seized Randall Clark’s rifle, inhaling with relief that it was where she had left it.

        “What are you going to do?” Waking Cloud asked, appearing behind her.

        Joan hunted around in one of the crates on the shelf until she found the ammunition she was looking for, relieved that Joshua kept a stockpile of miscellaneous supplies to trade with people. She was smirking as she slapped the magazine into the gun.

        “I’m going to snipe.”

        Waking Cloud seemed to be on the verge of telling Joan to stay still or to hide herself, but Joan quelled her with a look. For the first time in many months she felt like her old self again, and it was wonderful.

        From below came the sounds of commotion, and Waking Cloud cast Joan a final, wary glance before turning around and sprinting back down the corridor.

        Joan hauled the gun up onto her shoulder and hurried outside to the overlook. The sky had begun to pale, the approaching dawn causing the horizon to glow pink around the edges and illuminate the valley.

_Fortuitous—for me, anyway_.

        Whoever had orchestrated this little plan had been crafty, she thought as she awkwardly laid half on her stomach and half on her side, the butt of the rifle nestled into her shoulder. Leading Joshua Graham out of Zion and taking the women of his camp; they had banked on knocking out two birds with one stone. It wasn’t a bad plan at all, but—she grinned, aiming down the crooked sights and capturing the feathered helmet of a Decanus in them—they had not banked on _Joan_ , the fabled Courier and leader of New Vegas, to be here as well.

        She took a steady inhale and pulled the trigger; the Decanus’s head exploded, casting a chunky red mist onto the men around him, who immediately cried out and scattered.

        Though she was unfamiliar with this gun, it soon felt at home in her hands as she burned through round after round. She lost count after about the fifteenth head she had blown off—by then they had started to scramble and hide from the gunfire, and she was too preoccupied with tracking them to keep score of how many men were falling. She was so consumed that she no longer felt the discomfort in her belly and hips and she lay on the cragged stone; the only thing that mattered was pulling the trigger and pausing to reload. The Eastern Virgin ran red with Legion blood, and she swelled with venomous pride to see her fine work.

        The fight must have been going well for the Sorrows too, she thought, pausing to slam another magazine into her rifle. She could hear the women shouting and yelling—and a few terrible, unfortunate screams—but she heard no trace of activity in the chamber behind her. She placed her trust in God that he would lead them to victory.

        The herd of Legionaries had been thinned out, as far as she could see—they were pinned between her spot overlooking the stream, and the camp, which was full of unexpectedly determined and capable fighters.

        She smirked as she took another shot, and a yet another Legionary fell, joining the rest of the corpses that studded the stream. A few of them had run into the traps that Joshua had ordered to be laid; as usual, Joan had no stomach for torture and suffering. She had blown their heads off neatly as they howled and screamed, trying desperately to pull their mangled calves out of the deadly metal teeth, too panicked to realize that they were just making it worse.

_A kindness for all of them, really_ , she thought as she burned through another magazine. They had chosen their path in life, and Joan was happy to return them to God, so that He might judge them. She had faith that He would be far more merciful than she ever could be.

        She fumbled beside herself for another box of ammunition, and her hand dusted across bare stone. Joan tore her eyes away from the river and looked at the ground. The ammunition that this rifle took wasn’t common, and she had already depleted the supply she had managed to rustle up in Joshua’s chamber.

        She scrambled to her feet, clapping her palm to her lower back and gritting her teeth as the pain of lying on her stomach finally caught up with her, pulsing through her spine and hips. She rushed back into the Angel Cave.

        From inside the cave she could hear the commotion in the camp below, and her hands chilled before she composed herself, forcing her attention back to searching through the shelves that lined the chamber. She couldn’t hear anything at all from within the bottom half of the cave, and assumed that the fight had moved outside into the camp. She had to have cleared out most of the intruders, hadn’t she? Surely the Sorrows could mop up whatever was left. Joan had been out sniping on the overlook for so long that the sun had risen high enough in the sky to peek out from behind the tall red rocks that circled the valley—if the Legion was going to overrun them, they would have done so by now. Many had turned and fled, running right into Joan’s line of fire, where she’d quickly dispatched them. The fight couldn’t possibly last much longer.

        Joan’s tossed aside the crate she had been hunting through, growing uneasy. She couldn’t find any more ammunition for her rifle. She was skilled in reloading—something that she and Joshua had once discussed with enthusiastic passion—but there wasn’t time to produce more, even if she did it quick and dirty.

        The Sorrows had pulled their Yao Guai gauntlets out of some crates in the chamber below, she recalled—it was a long shot, but perhaps Joshua kept a store of extra ammunition down there as well. She turned and made her way to the mouth of the corridor before pausing.

        A shadow was bobbing along the wall, walking quickly up the winding path. For an irrational and titillating moment she thought it was Joshua, her face lighting up with relief as she dashed toward it. A much taller body collided with her just as she exited the chamber, and she bounced backward, scrambling to correct her balance. She looked up and the color drained out of her face.

        Vulpes Inculta stood in the entryway of Joshua’s chamber; his pale blue eyes were round as he looked her up and down, his gaze pausing to linger on her engorged belly before his expression settled back into the serpentine coldness she remembered him for.

        “Well, well. I knew that you were in Zion, but I wouldn’t have guessed that you were like _this_. What an interesting turn of events.”


	22. When the Levee Breaks

Chapter 22: When the Levee Breaks

_Crying won't help you; praying won't do you no good_

        The air in Joan’s lungs exited her in a rattle as she stared at the man before her. She had only seen Vulpes Inculta a handful of times; barring the time they had met on the Strip—when he had been dressed in a suit and tie—he looked more or less the same as he had the last time she had seen him. He was dressed in the standard Legionary attire, although he had apparently elected to forgo the dog’s head this time.

        She stood locked in place, the blood in her veins replaced with ice. Her rifle was still clenched in her numb hands; she raised it and pointed it at him.

        “Don’t come any closer,” she warned, taking a step backward from him. Vulpes Inculta did not flinch—he stared at her rifle with no more interest than if she’d brandished a toy at him. He took a step closer to her, closing the gap that she had created.

        “I’ve seen the work you’ve been doing on the men out in the stream—if you were going to shoot me, you’d have done so by now. You’re just about as bloodthirsty as ever, it seems... but I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised, given what you did at Fortification Hill.”

        He took another step toward her and Joan’s heartbeat sped into a gallop. She jerked the barrel of her rifle at him, trying desperately to maintain a stern expression. She could tell by the tension in her jaw that she likely wasn’t succeeding.

        “I’m _serious_ ,” she barked at him. “You have ten seconds to turn around and go back the way you came before I blow your fucking head off.”

        “Is that so?” Vulpes Inculta replied, giving her a thin smile. He halted in front of her and held up his hands disarmingly. Joan took another step backward, keeping her gun trained on him.

        A second dragged by as they stared at each other, and then another. Joan continued to shuffle her feet backwards, trying to inch away from him as inconspicuously as she could. The small curve of Vulpes Inculta’s lips did not fade, and he somehow looked more wolfish with the tiny hint of a smile on his face than if he’d just grinned at her.

        “Well?” he prompted her after several more seconds had elapsed. “Not going to take your best shot at me? I’m standing perfectly still. Go ahead.”

        Joan’s fingers trembled against the grip of her rifle, and the faint smile faded away from Vulpes Inculta’s face as he finally approached her.

        “You don’t have a single bullet in that rifle,” he said, his voice flat and monotonous. “I know you. I know more about you than you could probably ever guess… If you had had even a single round in that gun, I suspect I’d be sprawled across the floor with a hole in my chest right now.”

        He had come close enough to Joan that the tip of her rifle was nearly prodding the front of his uniform. She looked up at him, her expression quivering as the wheels of her brain spun around with urgency, desperately trying to find a way out of this. She could turn and run, but where? To the overlook? Assuming she could even outrun Vulpes Inculta—which she very much doubted—there was no way she’d be able to climb down the rocky cliffs in her condition. Not to mention that there were likely still Legionaries down below her; she would just be jumping from the frying pan and into the fire. She gritted her teeth. Distantly she could still hear the Sorrows waging their war outside in the main camp—surely one of them would have to come and check on her. If she could keep Vulpes Inculta talking, then perhaps she could buy herself enough time for someone to arrive and help her.

        She cast an appraising glance at Vulpes Inculta. He didn’t appear to be carrying any sort of gun, which was fortunate.

        “What are you doing here?” she asked. She had intended for it to come out as an authoritative demand, but her voice was as thin and weak as water. Though her ruse was completely shot, she still kept the tip of her gun trained on Vulpes Inculta as she continued to try to stealthily shuffle away from him.

        “Isn’t it obvious?” he replied, his voice light and silky once again. “I’m here for you, Joan. Just you.”

        Joan’s mouth popped open, forming a small, surprised circle.

        “What the hell do you want with _me_?” she asked. She had managed to back away a few more inches from Vulpes Inculta. If he noticed, he didn’t seem to care, which elicited gooseflesh to rise along her arms and sides.

        “After what you did at Fortification Hill? To Caesar?” he said, his lip curling. The silkiness has dissipated, and Joan shivered. “I don’t care about the other women in this camp. I don’t even particularly care about the Burned Man. I’m just here for _you_.”

        The next breath Joan took was shaky, and couldn’t seem to find its way down her throat and into her lungs. She was holding onto the rifle so tightly that her fingers began to tremble, her battered forefinger quivering with pain; she swallowed, willing herself to stay composed. _I can’t give in now. Help could arrive at any moment, so just keep him talking. Remember Nipton—this bastard could listen to himself talk for hours. Just stall._

        “So is that what you’re here for? Revenge?” she asked, forcing her voice to remain steady. “That doesn’t really seem to be in line with Caesar’s philosophy. _Might makes right_ , and all that. Not really what Caesar would have wanted, is it?”

        It probably wasn’t the wisest course of action to say such goading words to him, but she hoped that he would take this as an opportunity to try to “educate” her about the _purity of the Legion,_ or whatever demented excuses they used to justify their actions.

        “ _I_ am not Caesar,” Vulpes Inculta replied bluntly. The color that had risen back to the surface of Joan’s face bled away again, and she shuffled backward faster. He took a step toward her as he continued speaking.

        “But… I suppose you could say that it’s revenge. It looks like I’ll be getting more than I bargained for, too. I thought you were the _great leader of New Vegas,_ conqueror of Caesar’s Legion, taker of Hoover Dam,” he said scathingly. Sweat broke out across Joan’s forehead and her breathing grew rapid. She kept her rifle pointed directly at Vulpes Inculta’s chest as he continued.

        “So what are you doing in a cave, fat and swollen with child? It’s Joshua Graham’s, I presume.”

        Joan lowered her chin, her gaze shifting to a hard glare as color swelled in her cheeks.

        “That’s none of your goddamn business.”

        Vulpes Inculta contemplated her for a moment, his cold eyes lingering for far too long on her belly. For a beat she longed to take her hands off of her rifle to shield it from him, but she resisted the urge. His eyes finally traveled upward again and met her own before he closed the distance between them, his boots heavy against the stone floor of the cave.

        “That’s just as well. I really should be getting on with this anyway.”

        Without warning, Vulpes Inculta ripped the rifle from her hands, and she cried out as he twisted and lobbed it to the far side of the cave. Joan recoiled from him, clutching her finger. It hadn’t broken this time—thank God—but it caused a scream of pain in the slowly mending break from last month.

        She scrambled backward, hunching over her swollen stomach with her hand cradled to her chest. They were standing in the middle of the chamber now, close to Joshua’s work table. Her mind was shrieking for her feet to move, and it took an agonizing moment for her body to catch up—she had turned and begun to tear away from Vulpes Inculta when his pale hand shot out, seizing her by the upper arm. She barely had time to gasp when he twisted, hurling her small frame at one of the shelves that lined the room.

        Joan screamed as she collided with it, her back striking the shelf with enough force that the items standing on it showered down on her as she fell to the floor of the cave, gasping and curling in on herself. Her calf stung in particular, and she glanced down at it—one of the heavier items on the shelf must have caught her just right, leaving a jagged gash in her shin, which was already gushing blood. She lay there panting as pain shot up her hips and spine before willing herself to move, adrenaline kicking in and muting some of the pain.

        Her arms trembled as she heaved herself to her palms; the air she shakily inhaled caught against her dry throat like sandpaper, causing her to heave and cough.

        “After what you did to my master?” Vulpes Inculta demanded. He was standing over Joan and glaring down at her, his voice frozen with malice. “Defiling his corpse? Oh, I’m sure you intended to send a message, by leaving his and Lucius’s heads impaled outside his tent. Are you so surprised that your message was received? Are you so foolishly naïve to think that nothing would come of that, that you wouldn’t have to _answer_ for your actions?”

        He drew his boot back before bringing it sharply into her sternum and she howled again, collapsing back to the floor, clenching her fisted hands to her chest. He had struck her so hard that something deep within her cracked; her next inhale sent a wave of agony crashing through her torso, and tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes. She whimpered as she tried to gather herself together.

        “To think that someone as weak and pathetic as you could have managed to kill not only my lord, but his Praetorians as well.” Vulpes Inculta’s voice came out in a strained, furious hiss as he knelt down beside Joan. She was trying to scramble away from him when he struck her in the face; she cried out as her vision blurred, leaving her disoriented.

        Vulpes Inculta pulled himself back to his feet, holding her glasses between his forefinger and thumb, sneering down at her.

        “As if it wasn’t enough that you’re tiny and weak, barely larger than a child. Even your own eyes have betrayed you.”

        “ _Please_!” Joan cried, clawing out at him, her eyes wide with unfocused terror. “I can’t see—”

        Blurry as he was, she could still make out what happened next—Vulpes Inculta dropped her glasses to the floor before crushing them under his boot, shattering them. With the snap of the thin metal frames, Joan felt something inside herself give way and break as well. He ground the glass fragments and warped metal frame into the stone floor with a twist of his heel.

        Joan shrieked, reaching out for the tinted shards of her glasses, fear of slicing her fingers the only thing that caused her hands to stop just short of them.

        “ _No, no, no_ ,” she cried, tears welling up in her eyes. She had worn those glasses since the day she had woken up in Doc Mitchell’s house—without them she was nearly blind. Like water slipping through the fingers of a cupped hand, she saw her chances of escaping Vulpes Inculta rapidly dwindling.

        Vulpes Inculta’s hazy form had stepped to the side of her; Joan heard a dull metallic shriek, and looked up just in time to see the blurry shadow of the shelf she had been huddled beneath rushing toward her. She tucked her elbows in and rolled to the side, wincing at the electric bolt of pain in her chest and stomach as it crashed to the ground, narrowing missing her. Cans of food, boxes of primers, batteries, and other assorted items scattered across the floor of the cave.

        She lay panting and trembling on the floor, her hair sticking to her sweat slicked forehead before trying to crawl to her hands and knees, her palms and shins scraping against the harsh points of the stone beneath her; despite her best efforts, she couldn’t seem to gain any traction, her hands slipping painfully across the ground.

 _I can’t escape this. I can’t even manage to pick myself up, let alone see what he’s going to do next_ , Joan thought, her chest squeezing with misery. A desperate and humiliated sob bubbled out of her throat.

        “ _Joshua_ ,” she cried, “Help me—help, me, please, HELP ME!”

        She cried with abandon, trying to scrape her damp hair out of her face. None of it mattered—Joshua was miles away, unaware of what was transpiring.

        “He won’t be helping you,” Vulpes Inculta said, approaching Joan again. He didn’t seem to mind at all that she had narrowly dodged his attack; dimly Joan recalled Nipton, and how he had luxuriated in the suffering of others. Unlike Joan, he thrilled and delighted in torture and torment and misery. Joan’s heart—which was already frantically racing in her chest—began to pound harder. She had managed to sit up, and was shuffling backward on the heels of her palms, her feet kicking uselessly out against the stone floor.

        From within the folds of his tattered red skirt, Vulpes Inculta withdrew a combat knife. Out of focus as he was, the silhouette was immediately identifiable, and Joan shrieked and shuffled backward faster, her heart pumping so hard she thought it would break free of the confines of her fractured ribcage.

        “Still, I can’t risk him coming back in time to do anything about this,” Vulpes Inculta said, stalking toward Joan. She had shuffled so far backward that her shoulder blades struck another one of the shelves lining the room, and she cried out again, the worn metal frame digging into her spine.

        “I was willing to sacrifice a few contubernia of Legionaries, but I’m sure they won’t keep him entertained for long,” Vulpes Inculta continued, drawing closer to her. “I’m sure they won’t be enough to stop him. Mangled and disfigured as he is, I know all too well what he’s capable of. He deserves this just as much as you do; so I think I’ll leave him a message of my own, just as you left for me. I’ll cut his unborn child right out of you—let us see how well the Malpais Legate enjoys coming back to a dead whore and a dead baby.”

        Joan’s fingertips had been scraping against the floor of the cave with enough force that her nails had begun to bend backward and ache; her hands immediately stilled.

        “ _No_ ,” she whispered. She glared up at Vulpes Inculta, fire bursting to life within her stomach. She jerked her hand from the floor and cupped it protectively around her belly.

        This had been _her_ burden, _her_ misery, _her_ terror; but it was still _her_ baby; it was as though a volcano had erupted within Joan, burning away all the fears and anxieties she had regarding her child. If she was going to die at Vulpes Inculta’s sadistic hands, so be it—but she wasn’t going to go down without a fight, and she was going to do whatever it took to preserve the precious life that she and Joshua had created together.

        “Burn in hell!” she roared at him from the floor; the challenge broke his cool demeanor, and Vulpes Inculta rushed at her, the knife in his hand craned over his head. He was on top of her nearly instantly and she shrieked with terror and fury as he plunged the blade down, catching her in the side of her forearm. Blood immediately spurted out over both of them, and she latched onto his wrist, desperately trying to angle the knife away from her while striking at every inch of him that she could reach with her free hand. She was flat on her back now, Vulpes Inculta straddling her thighs; she kicked out frantically, hoping to catch him between the legs with her knees. He bore down harder, and she groaned from the substantial amount of weight he had on her.

        Vulpes Inculta was close enough to her now that she could see him with clarity—bile rose in her throat at the unabashed excitement on his face, his blue eyes flashing with exhilaration, as well as something darker and fouler lurking behind his engorged pupils. She hissed with disgust and threw her weight to the side, trying to toss him off of her. It was just enough that he lurched, falling off balance.

        She had to escape him; it was miracle enough that she hadn’t already been stabbed a dozen times over, but she couldn’t hold him off for long. Fueled with righteous anger and adrenaline, she tore away from him, narrowly managing to slip out of his grip, his fingernails raking down her forearm and wrist. She had managed to roll onto her side, and she swept her arms out, trying to keep them away from Vulpes Inculta so that he couldn’t pin her. Her hands landed beneath the shelf that towered over them and the tips of her fingers brushed something cold and metal.

        She ground her teeth as his hands knotted into her dark, tangled hair instead, yanking her head backward.

        “You’re putting up a more impressive fight than I would have thought, especially in your condition,” he hissed at her. “But you’re only prolonging the inevitable.”

        Her fingertips scrambled before locking onto the metal thing under the shelf, and her eyes shot open wide. The thing was coated with a thick layer of dust, but there was no mistaking the shape of it—it was one of Joshua’s guns.

        As though a light had switched on inside her skull, she recalled with stark clarity the day that Joshua had taken her on his work table. She saw his bandaged arm sweeping across it, scattering his meticulously cleaned firearms all over the floor. This one must have landed beneath the shelf, lost and forgotten among the dozens of pistols that Joshua maintained.

        Joan wrapped her fingers around the gritty, dust blanketed barrel as Vulpes Inculta was dragging her backward, his hands around her hips as he fought to roll her over onto her back again. She kept her arm thrust out, hidden under the shelf for as long as she could, grinding her teeth at the feeling of Vulpes Inculta’s degenerate hands grasping her where Joshua had once held her.

        “You’re not the first woman I’ve done this to,” Vulpes Inculta said breathlessly, finally managing to successfully roll her over onto her back. He looked down at her, depraved and twisted as he yanked her dress up, exposing her round stomach, the combat knife still locked in his grip. He swept his broad hand across the smoothly taut flesh and the color fled out of Joan’s cheeks once more; she thought she would be sick, and she clenched her fist around the barrel of the pistol even more tightly.

        “But you’ll certainly be the most memorable,” he continued, speaking faster as he angled the tip of the blade toward her belly. “As soon as I’ve finished with you, I’ll escape the camp—there are still scattered Legion deserters throughout Nevada and Arizona. Cowards, but they’ll join me, and I’ll reestablish the Legion—”

        As fast as a snake, Joan jerked her hand out from beneath the shelf; Vulpes Inculta barely had time to tear his eyes away from her belly before she had struck him, delivering the butt of the pistol into one of his high cheekbones with enough force that she heard the crack of bone. He tumbled backward, spilling off of her as the knife clattered to the floor, his hands flying to his face as he roared with pain and fury.

        Joan didn’t waste time—she picked herself up to her palms, her legs trembling as she hauled herself to her knees, trying to stand up as fast as she could.

        “YOU DEGENERATE WHORE!” Vulpes Inculta bellowed at her—she shrieked and tried to dash away from him, but his hand had locked around her forearm, the tips of his fingers plunging into the long gouge he had carved into her. Joan screamed and writhed in his grip as tears of agony welled in her eyes. The pistol she had used to strike him was still clenched firmly in her hand; she twisted and began to attack Vulpes Inculta with it, pounding the butt of it into his shoulders, his chest, his arms; this seemed to only further enrage him, and he buried his fingers into the wound on her arm even harder, causing her to spit and curse at him.

        Both of them were shouting and cursing too loudly to hear the pounding footsteps that were raging up the corridor, spurned even faster at the sound of screams.

        Vulpes Inculta had managed to snare Joan’s other hand and she cried out loudly enough that her shrieks echoed around the cave; the gun in her hand tumbled out of her grasp and to the floor, her fingers clawing in agony at the force he was exerting around her wrist. He clenched hard enough that for a horrifying moment she thought that it would break before his fingers abruptly snapped back, releasing her.

        It was as if a freight train had struck Vulpes Inculta; Joan tumbled backward as he shot to the side, the air rushing out of his lungs in a wheezy exhale as a figure collided with him, tearing him off of Joan.

        Joan fell sharply onto her side before heaving herself up onto her hands, her eyes jerking around the blurry cave before they landed on Joshua Graham’s form; even as out of focus as he was, there was no mistaking the black rectangle of his SLCPD vest, framed with his white sleeves and bandaged forearms.

        Joshua was roaring with rage, adding to the tumultuous racket in the cavern—Joan could make out his arms holding Vulpes Inculta up, his hands knotted furiously into the thin fabric of the other man’s dusty red undershirt as he violently shook him, handling him as though he was a child’s ragdoll.

        “ _You_ ,” Joshua growled, drawing the word out with baleful fury. Vulpes Inculta was scrambling in his grip, trying to free himself.

        “How dare you defile Zion! You dare to come into _my_ valley, _my_ temple, _my_ home!”

        Even though Vulpes Inculta was the taller of the two men, Joshua Graham hurled him to the ground, where he shrieked with pain, his pale hands darting to his cheekbone as he bounced off the floor of the cave. Joan’s eyes were fixed on them, wide and red against her damp face as Joshua lunged at Vulpes Inculta, tearing his pistol from his hip as he landed on him. Joshua was straddling his belly as Vulpes Inculta bellowed and wheezed, his voice ragged and high and thin with fear as he cried out.

        “You dare to bring harm to _my_ child,” Joshua snarled with hatred. “You’ve brought about the day of your calamity by your own hand—and vengeance _will_ be mine.”

        Joshua craned his arm back in an arc, and the snakeskin adorned grip of his gun caught the dull lamplight from his worktable.

        Joan scrambled to her feet.

        Just as Joshua was bringing his pistol down, Joan wrapped her arms around Joshua’s forearm, digging her heels into the stone floor, her ribcage screaming in protest as she barely managed to prevent the butt of Joshua’s gun from colliding with Vulpes Inculta’s face.

        “Stop! Stop!” she shouted as blood poured out of the gaping wound in her forearm, spattering the trail of circles on Joshua’s bicep. She was close enough to Joshua that there was no mistaking the glittering malice in his eyes as he swung his gaze toward her. They were wild and lost with blood-thirst; she yelped as he thrust his arm out, sending her careening away from him. She struck the ground with a wince but quickly pulled herself back to her feet before grabbing Joshua’s arm just as he drew it back again.

        “Stop it!” she cried, burying her thin fingers into his wrist. Joshua snapped his head around and glared at her, his gaze hard and sharp now.

        “ _What_!” he demanded. “You can’t mean to tell me that you want me to spare this—this _thing_ , this snake! It’s a miracle that you’re even alive right now. He dared to violate the temple of the Lord, and the wages of sin is death!”

        “No,” Joan replied, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her eyes bright. She held on to Joshua’s wrist steadfastly; it was as hot as a spent casing beneath her fingertips. “He deserves so much worse than this.”

        Joshua’s eyes widened and he twisted his head further, granting her his full attention as she continued, her voice pitching with frenetic energy.

        “He deserves so much more than just this—he should die in pain and fear, for all the pain and fear he’s ever caused! It’s only just!”

        A fire ignited behind the cold fury in Joshua’s eyes as they stared at each other. Beneath Joshua, Vulpes Inculta continued to struggle, trying to squeeze out from beneath Joshua’s hips as he groaned with pain.

        Joshua’s expression settled, and beneath his bandages she could see the corners of his lips curve upward. He stood up from Vulpes Inculta before delivering a swift kick to his ribs; Vulpes Inculta howled and curled in on himself, wrapping his hands around his torso and trembling.

        “You’re right… I believe I know exactly what to do,” Joshua said. Joan stepped aside as Joshua strode past her, marching to one of the crates in the room. From within it he drew the handcuffs that she had grown intimately familiar with; instinctively she slipped her wrists behind her sides to obscure them, but Joshua walked past her. Dropping to his haunches, he shoved Vulpes Inculta onto his stomach, causing him to bellow and curse again as he writhed against Joshua, trying to free himself.

        “Stop fighting,” Joshua said flatly. Joan watched as he wrenched Vulpes Inculta’s hands behind his back before locking them together, the dull metal cuffs biting into his pale flesh. Joshua dragged Vulpes Inculta into a sitting position, and for the first time since their struggle she saw Vulpes Inculta’s face. It was white with terror, his left eye blackened and shiny, surrounded by marbled tones of sickly yellow and purple. Beneath his eye socket was a terrible indent with a bloody score at the center of it. The skin around it was already beginning to swell.

        A blood vessel near his eye must have popped—the sclera of his left eye was tinged red as he glared at Joan, his shoulders flexing and tensing as he tried to free himself.

        Joan stared down on him, feeling nothing but satisfaction. She cupped her hands around her belly instead, savoring the warmth inside.

        Vulpes Inculta’s gaze was torn away as Joshua approached him again—in his hands was another pair of cuffs. Vulpes had begun to kick out when Joshua seized his ankle, latching the cuff around it with a series of sharp clicks. After a minute of wrestling, he managed to claim Vulpes Inculta’s other ankle as well, and in a moment they were bound together, his boots scraping at each other.

        Joshua stood again before kicking Vulpes Inculta onto his side. He coughed as his face struck the floor of the cave, narrowly missing one of the tins of Cram that had been scattered earlier. Joshua withdrew his pistol from his hip again before casting a quick look at Joan over his shoulder; she looked back at him and he nodded at her before bringing the butt of it down on the back of Vulpes Inculta’s head. He cried out again before slumping lifelessly to the floor.

        “He’s as slippery as a serpent,” Joshua said, standing back up and placing his gun back in his holster before dusting his hands off. “Better to be certain that he can’t so much as _attempt_ to escape—I’m sure locking him to the reloading bench would have been about as effective as it was with _you_.”

        With his final word, he turned to face Joan and the two stared at each other.

        Now that the dust had begun to settle, every ache, pain, and terror began to creep back into Joan’s body; her chin trembled before she dashed to Joshua, throwing her arms around him and burying her face into his chest as she sobbed. Joshua didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around her in return, pulling her close.

        “Are you alright?” he asked her, his voice hoarse with worry. “Is the baby alright? He didn’t—”

        “I’ll be okay,” Joan sniffed loudly, leaving damp spots on the front of Joshua’s tactical vest. She allowed Joshua to gently push her back so that he could inspect her, his pale blue eyes narrowed with concern as he took in the ravaged slash on her arm and the bruises already developing on her calves and wrists. Tears of mixed relief and fear continued to stream down Joan’s face; Joshua swallowed, his eyes darkening.

        “He didn’t… he didn’t do anything _else_ … before I arrived, did he?” he asked stiltedly. Joan stared back up at him, confused for a moment before grasping what he meant, her face paling.

        “ _No_. No, nothing like that happened,” she said, giving silent thanks to God. The ordeal had been horrific and nightmarish enough—the thought of something so depraved happening on top of it all hadn’t even crossed her mind, and she shuddered to even think of it. The perverse excitement behind Vulpes Inculta’s pupils alone had been enough to sicken her.

        Joshua exhaled with relief before dropping to his knees in front of her and wrapping his arms around Joan’s waist, tugging her close.

        “I can’t believe I almost didn’t make it,” he murmured, pressing his cheek into her belly. Joan hesitated a moment before cupping her palm across the back of Joshua’s bandaged head and cradling it as Joshua continued to whisper against her. “ _Thank God, thank God_ …”

        “What are you even doing here?” she asked. “You only left last night—I thought for sure you wouldn’t return for at least a day or two; how could you have known?”

        “It’s obvious to me now that we were lead into a trap—but I believe Vulpes underestimated how familiar the Dead Horse scouts are with the lands even outside of Zion. We located the Legionaries within just a few hours last night,” Joshua replied, his warm cheek still pressed to her stomach. “We dispatched them with ease; I’m certain they were former slaves, they didn’t seem to have much training, and they didn’t put up much of a fight. We returned to Zion as soon as we were finished. When we entered the valley this morning, there was no mistaking the trail of boot prints crossing the park. I came back as fast as I could.”

        He sighed before finally pulling away from her belly, his fingertips lingering on it as he drew himself back up to his feet, looking down at her.

        “I’m sorry, Joan. I should have listened to you last night,” he said. “I was arrogant and cruel to you… and you didn’t deserve that. I can see now that you were looking out, not just for me, but for all of us. I hope you can forgive me.”

        Joan returned his gaze, her heart sprinting inside her chest as she slid her hands forward across her belly, her fingertips brushing over Joshua’s before resting on top of them.

        “It doesn’t matter,” she said, giving him a small, relieved smile. “I was an idiot to try to leave Zion. I’m just glad you’re here… I missed you, even before all of this happened.”

        Joshua gave her hands a brief squeeze.

        “I know you did,” he said solemnly, his brows arched in an empathetic frown.

        They stood for a moment and stared at each other before Joshua broke the silence, turning and looking at Vulpes Inculta, who was still lying on the floor, dazed and semi-unconscious. He pulled away from Joan and approached him, inspecting the blood crusted crater of his cheekbone.

        “What did you do to him? I’ve seen Vulpes fight first hand—I trained Legionaries that were much stronger than him, but very few that could match his cunning,” Joshua said. Joan swelled with pride at the impressed note in Joshua’s voice, and she crossed the cave to join him.

        “The day you… you um,” she trailed off, pinkness flooding her cheeks. She looked at the pistol that was still lying on the stone before looking back at Joshua. “When you shoved all your guns to the floor? One of them wound up beneath the shelf. I managed to grab it, and I pistol whipped him in the face with it.”

        Joshua’s gaze had followed her own, his eyebrows rising. He walked to the pistol and plucked it from the ground, turning it over in his hands before looking at Joan. She lit up inside at the satisfaction and pride on Joshua’s face.

        “Is that so?” He trailed off, the look of pride shifting into one of self-consciousness. “I suppose I destroyed your own gun—perhaps we can clean this one up, and it can be yours instead.”

        A broad smile spread across Joan’s face.

        “I would love that.”

        Joshua delicately placed the pistol onto his work table before approaching Vulpes Inculta again; kneeling, he snatched the length of chain that linked his handcuffs before standing and dragging Vulpes Inculta’s prone body toward the mouth of the chamber, beckoning Joan to follow him.

        “Come on—the Dead Horses will have the last of the Legionaries outside rounded up by now. Let’s finish this.”


	23. Ready for the Devil

Chapter 23: Ready for the Devil

_Your soul's at the crossroads, your sins aren't forgiven—they're gonna take that dark road_

        Joan trotted behind Joshua as he hauled Vulpes Inculta’s slack weight down the corridor of the Angel Cave—he took no particular care to be gentle with him, and Vulpes Inculta’s shins were streaked with bleeding scrapes and welts by the time they arrived outside.

        Joan gasped as she took in the camp: the sands lining the Eastern Virgin were stained red and a pile of football gear clad corpses was stacked against the canyon wall, with Sorrows adding yet more bodies to the pile.

        “Joan!”

        Waking Cloud dashed up and threw her arms around her; Joan returned her embrace, burying her face into her shoulder as she winced at the pressure on her ribcage.

        “Are you well?” she asked, pulling away from Joan and looking at her. Her expression morphed from one of concern to shock when she saw the bruises forming on Joan’s wrists and the long gouge on her arm.

        “What happened!”

        Joan looked over at Vulpes Inculta—whom Joshua was still dragging away, toward a line of living Legionaries that were bound on their knees beside the fire—before looking back at Waking Cloud. Waking Cloud clapped a tan hand over her mouth with horror.

        “I never even saw him go inside the cave—none of us did, we would surely have stopped hi—”

        Joan thrust her hand up, silencing Waking Cloud and giving her a small smile.

        “It’s fine, I know you would have. You had your hands full out here. Joshua arrived just in time… and everything was okay,” she said before pressing her palm to her ribs and wincing again. The aches and pains that had begun to return were settling into her bones now, making themselves at home. Waking Cloud drew closer to her, lifting her arm and scrutinizing it.

        “Come back inside the cave, I will patch you up. We suffered only a few losses, and everybody else is already looking after themselves. Come along,” Waking Cloud said, gently taking Joan’s hand and leading her back into the cave. Joan resisted her; though everything outside was blurry, amongst the line of bound Legionaries she spotted a figure that didn’t quite look like it belonged.

        “One moment,” she said. Waking Cloud released her hand, and Joan took slow, cautious steps toward the unfamiliar figure, shuffling her feet in the sand to make sure that she didn’t trip over anything. The figure was dressed differently than the Legionaries: it was wearing a white tank top, in stark contrast to their sun darkened skin.

        Joan was standing directly in front of the figure—a woman, she could see—before she finally realized who the strange outlier was. She was glaring balefully up at Joan, her bright brown eyes reflecting harsh pinpricks of sunlight.

        “You… You’re the woman from the caravan. Drusa,” Joan said, bending forward and squinting with a frown before abruptly dodging to the side—the woman had tried to spit at Joan, her face contorted with fury. Her arms were tied behind her back, and she thrashed back and forth, causing the Legionaries beside her to glance at her with nervousness.

        “I used to be a Ranger! My master will get us out of this, and you’ll rue the day you crossed the Legion!”

        Joan took a step back, staring down at the strange woman.

        “Who the hell is your _master_? Caesar has been dead almost a year now,” she said, cocking her head with confusion.

        Drusa glared up at Joan with hatred.

        “Vulpes Inculta! Head the Frumentarii! He’ll rescue me—he’ll—”

        Joan jerked her thumb toward Joshua, who had just deposited Vulpes Inculta’s body onto the ground next to the other Legionaries. He had finally begun to stir and moan, his voice heavy with pain. Drusa’s eyes shot open wide in panic and anger.

        “What have you done to him! As soon as I get out of thi—”

        “You should not get too close to that one.” One of the Dead Horse warriors had approached Joan, wedging himself between her and Drusa. “She is… how do you say it… dirty warrior? She will use her teeth if you get too close.”

        Joan snorted, poking her head around the Dead Horse’s arm and staring down on Drusa with vindictive satisfaction.

        “I can handle myself. I handled your goddamn _master_ back in the cave, too.”

        She reached forward and patted Drusa’s head as if she were a dog, ruffling her dark hair with condescension. Drusa snarled at her and Joan quickly withdrew her hand, placing it back against her belly. She spun and took off, leaving Drusa impotently spitting and cursing at her.

        Waking Cloud was standing by the mouth of the Angel Cave, waiting on her.

        “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

        “Please,” Joan said; she seized Waking Cloud’s arm and leaned on her, taking shallow breaths as they entered the cave. Waking Cloud led her to the fire and she sat down.

        “You should probably take off your dress—it looks as though something has happened to your chest,” Waking Cloud said nervously. Joan obliged her, wheezing with pain as she leaned forward, tugging her dress over her head; there was no way she would be able to reach around to the zipper enclosure with her ribs in the state they were. She sat back down, dressed only in her thin grey undergarments.

        An enormous chartreuse and navy bruise had already spread across her ribs, sprawling far enough that it covered most of her right breast as well. Marks of other various shades were forming across her hips, arms, and legs. She reached up to tenderly run her fingers across the bruise on her swollen breast, and it caused the jagged slash on her arm to reopen, sending a river of blood running down the length of her forearm before it pattered onto her thigh.

        She sat in silence as Waking Cloud worked on her before cursing through gritted teeth as Waking Cloud cleaned out the gash on her arm; a necessity, given how deeply Vulpes Inculta had shoved his disgusting fingers into her. An hour or so passed as Waking Cloud finished cleaning her up, binding her wounds tightly. By the end, Joan had stripped out of her worn undershirt, and her chest was wrapped with bandages, much like Joshua’s. She was forced to continue to breathe shallowly, but it didn’t send sharp bolts of pain across her torso now.

        “You are very lucky that nothing was broken,” Waking Cloud said, smudging strange smelling herbs against the cut on Joan’s calf. “The Father was truly looking out for all of us this morning—Passing Dawn would be proud at how well you defended not only yourself, but all of us.”

        Joan quickly looked away, pressing her lips together as tears further blurred her vision. After taking several deep swallows, she spoke, her voice strained.

        “Thank you. That really means a lot to me.”

        Waking Cloud stood and pulled Joan to her feet before helping her back into her dress. The bloody palm print had long been cleaned away by now, but Joan could feel the ghost of it against her breast, thrumming and warm. She placed her own palm where it had once been; she no longer had any regrets.

        “Let’s go outside,” she said, taking the lead; Waking Cloud followed her out into the radiant sunshine, casting warmth on the camp despite the cool weather that had finally settled in the valley.

        In the short hour that Joan had been inside the Angel Cave, Joshua and the Dead Horses had been busy: at the far end of the cove—close to the spot where Joan had passed out on her first night in Zion, a lifetime ago now—were a blurred line of poles protruding from the ground, freshly erected. They were slightly wobbly and unstable, but judging by the few Legionaries that had already been lashed to them, they were serving their purpose well enough. She walked closer, so that she could better see what was happening.

        On the pole closest to the water, Joshua Graham was wrestling Vulpes Inculta’s slack form onto it, propping him up and securing him with a length of rope. Vulpes Inculta’s head was nodding forward and swaying from side to side, and he was mumbling incoherently, his pale blue eyes clouded and dazed.

        “What are you doing?” Joan asked curiously. She watched the muscles in Joshua’s forearms clench and twitch as he secured the rope binding Vulpes Inculta before he stepped back, finally satisfied with his work.

        “I’m taking your suggestion. I’ve long thought of doing something like this… showing our enemies what will happen to them if they dare to stand against me,” Joshua said, brushing his palms on the thighs of his jeans.

        “What, by tying them to poles?” Joan asked, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Going to leave them outside to rot in the sun or something?”

        Joshua turned to look at her, his eyes narrowed.

        “Of course not, that’s disgusting. I have something much more fitting in mind.”

        Joan hung back as Joshua departed from her, and she took in the line of Legionaries in front of her. It was hard to read their faces without the aid of her glasses—and Lord how bright the sun was without them, she was forced to raise her hand to her brow to shield her eyes from the harsh glare of it—but she could see the way that they were sagging, anxious and antsy. Toward the end of the line was Drusa, lashed to her own pole. She alone was still struggling, and the pole behind her back was wobbling back and forth as she hurled her weight against it, shouting threats and epithets at anyone that would listen. Joan ignored her.

        Several minutes later Joan was forced to step aside as Joshua and a number of Dead Horse warriors approached her. The men were each clutching the edge of a large square of fabric; suspended on it was a thick layer of stones of various sizes, dipping the cloth so far down in the center that it was nearly dragging the ground. The men were sweating and grunting as they deposited their parcel onto the cool sands, about ten feet from the line of Legionaries.

        “Thank you,” Joshua said to them, taking a moment to catch his own breath. Joan’s eyebrows had risen at the stones—the purpose of the poles was now starkly clear.

        The Dead Horses gathered behind Joshua, lining up to face the row of bound Legionaries, who were now audibly panicking. Joshua bent to retrieve a stone from the pile and was hefting it in his palm to test the weight of it.

        “Wait,” Joan said, reaching out and grabbing his sleeve. Joshua looked down at her, his blue eyes narrowed.

        “What is it?”

        “I want to do this.”

        Joshua’s brows shot up, disappearing nearly under the edge of his bandages, before he grew stern.

        “I don’t think that would be wise, in your condition. These stones are heavy, and you shouldn’t be lifting—”

        Joan seized his hand, staring into his eyes with grim purpose.

        “I’m dead serious, Joshua. _I want to do this_. I have _earned_ the right to do this,” she said, her voice low and severe. “That fucking monster nearly killed me. He threatened to cut my baby out of my stomach and leave it as a message for you. If you want him to truly reap what he’s sown, then you’ll let me do this.”

        Joshua stared at her, seeming to size her up. It lasted for nearly a minute before the muscles in his forearm relaxed, and he dropped the stone into Joan’s waiting palm.

        It was hefty, but nothing she couldn’t handle; she twisted, looking at Vulpes Inculta. Though so blurry as to nearly be indiscernible, it was obvious that he had finally regained full consciousness—he was supporting himself on his own two feet, which were still cuffed together, and his head was held high and haughty.

        Joan slid her bare foot across the reddened sand, broadening her stance as she lifted her arm to take aim. She knew that this was going to burn like hell in her fractured rib, but she didn’t care. Vulpes Inculta deserved every bit of this, and more. They all did.

        Anything that threatened her budding family deserved everything that was coming to them, and she would see that justice was swiftly and brutally meted out.

        “So this is how it is,” Vulpes Inculta called out to her, his voice tensely pitched with fear and anger. “This is the depth of your moral sickness, you despicable sow—you’re no better than the Malpais Legate!”

        Joan steeled her arm before slinging it forward and casting the first stone as Joshua watched with approval. Her aim was true—the stone struck Vulpes Inculta in the face, and he howled with sickened agony and rage. Another howl punctured the cool air of the camp; at the far end of the line Drusa was shrieking and crying.

        “MASTER!” she screamed, leaning as far forward as she could, staring at Vulpes Inculta with eyes that were wide and ringed red. She screamed Vulpes Inculta’s name over and over as Joshua knelt, picking up his own stone before hurling it at the former leader of the Frumentarii, the last of Caesar’s Legion.

        The other Dead Horses—and some of the more vindictive Sorrows—joined in then, and the afternoon passed in a haze of crunchy thuds and screams of agony. Vulpes Inculta and Drusa were the first to die, hanging slack against their poles, bruised and battered, as frothing bubbles of blood and saliva dripped from their chins.

        Joan was able to hurl only a few stones at Vulpes Inculta before the pain in her ribs was too much—after that she stepped aside, watching Joshua work as she cupped her hands around her stomach, the warmth of their baby pleasant and soothing under her palms. After a while she felt it begin to move inside her, as if it too wanted to participate.

_That’s not for you_ , she thought, pressing her palms snugly to her belly. _I hope you grow up in a world where the Legion, or anyone like them, is a distant memory. I want you to reap the fruits of peace that we’re sowing, and to be better than both of us have been. I pray that you’ll never have to do this… but I will raise you to be strong enough to do it, if you have to._

        By the end of it, the members of the Dead Horse and Sorrows tribes were sweating and grinning, happy with their labors. The ground around the poles was spattered with blood that rapidly soaked into the sands.

        “Well done,” Joshua called to the group. He had loosened the collar of his shirt, fanning it out to cool himself off. “Work on gathering the rest of the bodies; we’ll carry them out of the camp and burn them properly elsewhere. Save a few of the heads—the roads could use some fresh ones.”

        The group nodded at him before setting about following his orders.

        Joshua turned to Joan then, sweeping his palm out and indicating that she should follow him.

        “Let’s go clean up,” he said, leading her into the bloody waters of the Eastern Virgin.


	24. Sugar

Chapter 24: Sugar

_Give me sugar; give me something sweet—I've spent a lifetime feeling incomplete_

        Joshua gently clasped his fingertips over Joan’s elbow to guide her as they navigated their way down the bloody stream. Nearly all of the bodies had been cleared out by now, but a few remained, bobbing helplessly against the canyon walls. One of the corpses was floating in the center of the water, his leg tangled in the metallic jaws of a trap; Joshua and Joan sidestepped it before continuing, making their way to the shallow inlet that Joshua used to bathe.

        As soon as they arrived, Joshua turned, and Joan could hear the soft hush of the panels of his vest being peeled away from each other. Waking Cloud had only just bandaged Joan up, so she settled by the edge of the water, letting her bare feet wave lazily back and forth in it as Joshua finished undressing. He stood before her, fully nude once more; he watched her for a moment before entering the water and submerging himself. She could see the drumbeat of his jaw as he devoted a few minutes to cleaning himself.

        “Do you want me to help you?” she called out to him. It would have been pointless to soak her fresh bandages through, but she would have done it, for him.

        “That’s not necessary,” he replied, wading through the water and approaching her again. She hadn’t seen his bare, ravaged flesh in some time, and it looked as unnatural in the sunlight as it ever did; he was beautiful.

        “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry, for everything.”

        Joshua paused, staring at her for a beat. After a moment he delicately took her foot, extending her short leg fully so that it was immersed in the water. He began to stroke his hands along the arch, working his fingers into the minute wrinkles and cleansing it.

        “I almost… I can’t believe I tried to get rid of…” Joan tilted her head down as he worked, unable to meet his eyes before forcing herself to look back up, squaring her shoulders with resolve.

        “I’m sorry for all the stress I put you through over these past few months. I’m sorry I tried to run. I’m sorry I tried to hurt our baby.”

        Joshua continued to meet her gaze, his hands working independently of his focus as he took her in; there had been a minute tightness in his expression, and it melted away the longer he watched her.

        “ _Their sins and lawless acts I will remember no more_ ; it’s behind us now,” he replied, setting aside her foot—scrubbed clean of sand and dirt now—before lifting her other and setting to work on it, his head bowed. He even worked the rough, scarred pads of his fingertips into the webbing between her toes; a fire stirred low in Joan’s navel, causing her toes to curl in his hands.

        “I love it here,” Joan continued. “I never want to leave. I meant it when I said so all those months ago.”

        At this, Joshua paused again, looking back up at Joan.

        “Do you mean that?”

        “Yes,” she answered without hesitation. One hand was braced against the sand, supporting her weight, and the other was cupped over her stomach. “I finally see how important this is… this life we’ve created. I love it. I don’t know if it will be a boy or a girl, and I don’t care. I love whatever’s in there. I…” she trailed off for a moment, high color spreading in her cheeks before she spoke again, her voice muted and cautious.

        “I love you. I don’t care what you say. I do. This is the only thing that matters to me now—our family. I was an idiot not to see it before. I don’t care about the Mojave or Vegas or anything anymore. _I just want you_.”

        Joshua slid his hands up Joan’s calves and thighs, finally coming to rest on the swell of her belly, leaning toward her.

        “Then I’ll keep you,” he said solemnly, his pale blue eyes boring into hers. “Stay with me here forever, if that’s what you truly mean; only say it if you promise to keep this covenant.”

        “I do,” Joan said, the words coming out barely above a whisper.

        With slow deliberation, Joshua closed the distance between them, and his blackened lips brushed over hers, firm and warm. Joan lifted her hand from her stomach to trail her fingers across the twists of flesh along the line of his jaw, leaning into him. A moment later they parted.

        Joshua’s eyes had that bright, yet slightly hazy look to them that she’d come to recognize; he lifted his hands from her stomach to her shoulders, gently pressing her backward until her spine met the sand before crawling over her and pushing her dress up, lifting her thighs around his hips. He was just bracing to enter her when Joan winced in pain. He abruptly halted, the fog clearing from his eyes as he looked down at her.

        “Sorry,” she murmured, pulling her hands away from Joshua’s shoulders and clutching her ribs, a pained hiss escaping through her gritted teeth. Joshua withdrew from her, and it was rare to see a small, unobscured smile on his face.

        “Forgive me,” he said dryly. “I forgot about your ribs. We’ll finish this when you’ve taken some time to heal.”

        Joan returned his smile with a brief laugh before squeezing her eyes shut, grimacing again. Joshua delicately arranged her underwear back into place before pulling her dress back down, and she sat up, taking shallow breaths.

        Joshua exited the water and sat by her side before binding himself back up with careful precision; as soon as he was finished, he stood, drawing his clothes back on before turning to face her. He looked no different than the day they had first met.

        “You look unusual without your glasses,” Joshua said, as if he’d been thinking something similar about her. Joan lifted her fingers to her temples self-consciously.

        “I can’t see without them,” she said. Joshua bent and offered his hand to her, helping her to her feet before guiding her back out of the inlet.

        She bowed her head, overcome with worry. Even if she recovered her traveling pack, within it was only a couple hundred caps; nothing compared to the fortune she was leaving behind in New Vegas. She had no idea how she would provide for herself now that she didn’t have the safety net of House’s fortune to fall back on.

        For a frightening moment she felt as though she was trapped on a tiny island, which was rapidly shrinking beneath her feet.

        “I know you need your glasses,” Joshua replied. “I’ll take care of you—I promise you neither vices nor riches, but you’ll be looked after. You and our child, both.”

        The shrinking mass beneath Joan’s feet stopped before swelling outward. Room enough for at least two—make that three. She pressed her free hand to her belly as they continued down the stream, squeezing Joshua’s hand in her own. He returned her affection, and she lifted her head, matching his pace as they made their way back to the Dead Horse’s camp.

***

        A few days later, all the bodies had been cleared out of the camp, leaving it as pristine as it had been before the Legion attack. One of the Dead Horses had assured Joan that the blood would clear from the waters of the inlet; within a day or two it finally had, restoring the river to its crystalline clarity. Still, all water that was consumed from it was boiled for safety, at least for the time being.

        Life had more or less settled back to normal for the tribes by then: scouts scoured the valley and the lands outside of it daily, to make sure there weren’t any more Legionaries hiding in the wilderness; each day they came back with no news, which was good.

        Joan spent most of her time by the fire—the temperature had sharply dipped, and it was cold enough that she had to drape herself with furs to stay warm. Without her glasses, she was unable to do much; she couldn’t even see to read, much less help out or do anything else.

        Joshua spared her what time he could when he wasn’t working with the Dead Horses; he would sit by her side, with his legs tucked under her furs, reading the bible aloud to her. His voice was deep, and had an almost musical quality to it as he regaled her with the tale of Jael, a Kenite woman who had delivered a land called Israel from the army of a wicked king. Joan would lean against his sturdy thigh, as enamored with his voice as she was with the words he was reading. Occasionally she would pull his hand to her belly to feel the stirring within; he’d pause his reading, and they would savor the tiny movements together until they stopped.

        A couple weeks after that, Joan was seated by the fire, huddling close to the warmth in the brisk late November air. It was rainy in the valley, but the furs did a good job protecting her from the worst of it.

_At least my glasses aren’t getting wet_ , she thought wryly, squinting against the blurry flare of the flames.

        Then out of nowhere, she felt as though a hand was squeezing against the base of her spine; she jerked forward, groaning in pain and clapping her hands to her lower back.

        “ _Fuck_ ,” she hissed, before spotting Waking Cloud crossing the camp. The eldest of her sons was following behind her, looking smug and pleased—he had a fresh tattoo on his side, which was bared for all the world to see, despite the frigid temperature. Walking beside him was the Dead Horse warrior that Waking Cloud had developed an interest in—Joan hadn’t failed to notice that she spent much more time in the camp now than she did before.

        Joan waved at her, managing to catch her attention, and Waking Cloud said a few parting words to the man and her son before crossing the camp, joining Joan.

        “Is everything well?” she asked, tucking her ankles beneath her as she sat beside Joan. She was dressed much more conservatively now that winter had begun to settle in the valley: instead of the thin blue strips of fabric that barely preserved her modesty, she was wrapped in furs that were knotted tightly around her midsection, with long pants made of bighorner skins obscuring her strong legs.

        “Oooh my God,” Joan groaned, her face pale. “Is it time? My back—”

        Waking Cloud pulled away Joan’s furs, inspecting her. After a solid five minutes she pulled back, giving Joan a lopsided smile.

        “Not just yet, but soon. Probably less than another pass of the moon, I am sure.”

        “But it _hurts_ ,” Joan whined, pinching her lips together. Waking Cloud rubbed the small of her back in broad, circular strokes.

        “I know it does. But this is normal. Do you not remember that Passing Dawn had similar pain in the weeks leading up to her…” Waking Cloud fell silent and Joan looked away, growing pale.

        She had to trust in God, she decided. God would watch over her, and if not God, then Joshua Graham would. She exhaled, slowly and steadily. Fortunately the pain in her ribs had diminished, although they were still tender.

        “… I remember,” she begrudgingly replied. Waking Cloud pulled her hand away, and Joan leaned back against the log she had been propped on, pressing her spine into it to try and alleviate some of the pain.

        “I went through this as well. Every woman does,” Waking Cloud said. Joan sighed again, this time out of relief.

        “Alright. That actually made me feel better,” she said. Waking Cloud smiled at her before jumping spryly to her feet.

        “Do not worry,” she said, a faintly mischievous glint in her dark eyes. “You will have _no_ doubt when it is truly time.”

        Joan narrowed her eyes at Waking Cloud as she flounced away, back to her family. _So much for total relief_ , she thought, settling back under her furs to wait.

        Dead Horse scouts had arrived in the camp that morning, bringing the news that a caravan was passing by close to Zion. Joan was in no condition to travel—mostly because she couldn’t see anything without her glasses—but not least of all because of the size of her stomach; despite the forgiving bagginess of her dress, the dark fabric now strained against it, her belly button popping out prominently, like some kind of ludicrous key in a lock.

        Joshua and a group of Dead Horses had set out for the caravan that morning, and she’d bade him farewell and a safe journey, resigning herself to sitting by the fire and warming her swollen ankles as she waited for them to return.

        The pain that had crept into her spine had abated by the time Joshua returned that afternoon. Though she trusted that he would be safe, it was still a welcome relief to hear him sloshing up the cold waters of the Eastern Virgin, returning to the camp.

        She twisted and watched as he wrung out the legs of his jeans, and even from this distance she could see that he was shivering. She wasn’t offended when he passed by her without saying anything; he made a beeline for the Angel Cave, and returned a few minutes later in fresh jeans that weren’t soaked through to the knees. Otherwise he was dressed the same as he usually was, as if the cold air wasn’t capable of penetrating the fire tempered flesh of his body. He had a pack slung over his broad shoulder, and he was carrying it toward her.

        He sat beside her and kicked off his snakeskin boots before spreading his long legs out towards the fire—though she had noticed that he never allowed any part of his body to draw _too_ close to the flames—and warmed his misshapen toes. From within the bag he withdrew a familiar box: Fancy Lads Snack Cakes. He quickly pulled back the bandages around his mouth before ripping the cardboard package open and devouring a cake. He offered the next to her, and she accepted it, taking a delicate bite. The intense cravings had mostly subsided by now, but she enjoyed these moments with Joshua; they were as tame and carefree as any couple had surely enjoyed before the Great War.

        “Sorry,” he said after he’d swallowed. “I’m famished from that walk.”

        They enjoyed a few of the cakes as Joshua told her about his trip for a while. It was mostly uneventful; he had pressed the caravanners about whether they’d seen any trace of Legionaries in the surrounding states, and they had not, which was always good news to hear.

        “The 80s have been more active though,” Joshua said before chewing thoughtfully on yet another cake. He had a capacity for eating quantities of food that astounded Joan, and she thought the old adage of men having a hollow leg might have some truth to it after all.

        “What have they been doing?” Joan asked as she laced her hands over her belly—a practically unconscious habit by now.

        “I can confess, it’s a little concerning,” Joshua replied. “They’ve been aggressively raiding growing settlements in the last few months. Clearly they’ve grown bold; one of the caravan mercenaries told me that they wiped out an entire village. None spared, they hadn’t even bothered taking any of the women. They destroyed everything that couldn’t be eaten or sold.”

        “Do we need to worry?”

        “ _No_ ,” Joshua replied with finality. Joan nodded at him, and he pulled the sack back into his lap again.

        “I have something for you,” he said, abruptly switching subjects. For the first time since they’d met, Joan heard something that sounded almost like mischievousness in his voice. She cocked her head, staring at his blurry face as he searched within the pack.

        Without any pomp or circumstance, he withdrew a pair of glasses and extended them toward her, the legs clamped between his fore and middle fingers. Joan gasped.

        “I can only pray that they’re close in strength to what you wore before,” he said. “It’s incredibly difficult to find prescription sunglasses.”

        Joan accepted the glasses, bringing them close to her face so that she could inspect them: they looked almost identical to her old ones, but were in much better shape, the lenses clean and free of scratches or blemishes. She immediately pushed them onto her nose and her eyes lit up as she looked around the cove.

        Finally she could see again the crisp definition of the grains of sand on the banks of the Eastern Virgin, as well as the fronds of the prickly trees that stood over the canyon walls. An enormous grin spread across her face as she turned back to Joshua, who was watching her. After nearly three weeks, she could finally see the tiny tug of wrinkles around his blue eyes as he returned her smile, and she devoured the sight of him, delighting in the coarse texture of the bandages on his face and forearms that she had never noticed before. Though she knew what the writing on his vest said, it felt miraculous to read the words, crisply white against black: SLCPD SWAT.

        Without warning she threw her arms around him, burying her face into those words, her chest expanding with joy.

        “How did you manage to find these?” she asked. Joshua wrapped his arms around her shoulders—albeit somewhat stiffly, as neither was usually so forwardly affectionate with each other—before responding.

        “The day after Vulpes launched his attack, I sent a few scouts outside of the valley. They aren’t very good at speaking English yet, but they were able to convey that I was searching for prescription sunglasses, and was willing to pay good caps for a pair. They stopped at every caravan and settlement they could find within several miles. It was only by the grace of God that the caravan that passed by today happened to have some in stock. I chose the strongest prescription that they had—how are they?”

        Joan pulled away from him, her stomach fluttery and buzzing. She looked around again, scrutinizing the camp around her; her old glasses had served her well enough, but she had always had to draw her bible—or her old Pipboy—quite close to her nose to be able to read it.

        “Can I see your bible?” she asked. Her own was tucked onto one of the shelves inside the Angel Cave, since she had seen little point in carrying it without the means to actually read it. Joshua obliged her without hesitation, pressing the pebbled cover of his scripture into her palm. She held it in her lap before flipping through it and smiling again.

        “Amazing,” she said reverently. “I can read it perfectly, even from this distance… my God.”

        Her vision blurred again—this time it was from the spring of hot tears that had rushed up, causing a sharp lump to form in her throat. She sniffed loudly before pushing her glasses up and wiping at her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. After a moment, she pressed Joshua’s bible closed and passed it back to him.

        “Thank you so much,” she said, covering her face, which had grown red.

        “I promised I would take care of you,” Joshua said. She leaned against him then, and he draped his arm around her, pulling her close and affectionately palming her stomach.

***

        A few days later, Joan was sitting inside the Angel Cave, balanced—rather precariously, it felt—on one of the cinderblock seats on either side of Joshua’s work table. It was dark and stormy this day, too rainy for her to sit outside, unless she wanted to be soaked through within minutes. She was fanning idly through her bible; Joshua had departed that morning without much word of where he was going or what he was planning to do. Joan didn’t particularly mind, enjoying the solitude that it afforded her for a while.

        Behind her, a shadow crept up the side of the corridor that led down to the camp—Joan twisted, hearing the soft beat of soled shoes.

        Joshua appeared in the mouth of the cave; the tops of his shoulders were densely speckled with wet spots, and in his hand was a small sack. He quickly crossed the room, stepping up onto the ledge and looking down at her.

        “I have one last thing for you,” he said. Joan arched her eyebrows at him; she couldn’t fathom anything that was missing or lacking in her life, especially now that she had glasses to see again.

        “What is it?” she asked. Joshua continued to stand by her side, so she stepped off the cinderblock stool to join him, her enormous belly projecting so far out that it nearly brushed against his own. A thread of apprehension laced through her stomach at how solemn Joshua appeared, even compared to how gravely he usually carried himself.

        From within the sack, Joshua extracted a folded parcel of white fabric, which he pressed into her hands—Joan shook the fabric out and her eyes widened.

        In her hands was a set of garments, almost identical to the ones that Joshua Graham wore beneath his clothes each and every day. They were appropriately sized for her small frame, although the top hung loose and billowy to accommodate her bulging torso. Two miniscule symbols had been embroidered on either side of the chest, and she let her fingers run tentatively over them.

        “Not just anyone can wear these,” Joshua told her. “They’re a commitment and a reminder of the covenants you have made, not just with God, but with myself. Only put them on if you are truly prepared to carry the responsibility of wearing them.”

        Joan stared reverently at the clothes, running her hands over the thin fabric and worrying it between her fingertips before she finally looked up at Joshua again.

        “I’m prepared,” Joan said softly. The severity bled out of his face, and he looked warm again.

        “Should I… Do I put them on now?” she asked. Joshua nodded at her, and she turned around so that he could pull down the zipper of her dress. Within a minute she stood fully nude before him once again, the tight bandages that had helped keep her fractured ribs in place long discarded. He watched her as she stepped into the shorts of the symbolic clothing before tugging the shirt down over her head, smoothing it over her belly. The bottoms reached all the way to her knees. They were slightly snug, but otherwise fit comfortably.

        “You’re beautiful,” Joshua murmured, reaching out and trailing his fingertips down the fabric covering her breasts and stomach. Hot color immediately flashed across Joan’s face, spreading all the way to her ears and throat. Irrationally, she wanted to turn and shield herself from him, feeling more naked now than she had a moment ago.

        “Wear them constantly, as I wear mine,” Joshua commanded. “I had another pair made for you to wear after you’ve given birth.”

        Fighting the urge to cover herself, Joan nodded at him, before bringing the tips of her fingers to her chest, caressing the small symbols there. She pressed her eyes closed and took a steadying breath, but the color remained in her cheeks.

        “I promise,” she said.

        Without warning, Joshua swept her into his arms, pulling her into an embrace. Joan floundered with her hands for a moment, unsure of what to do with this open affection. She couldn’t recall any time that he had hugged her, at least not like this—her stomach pressed into his almost uncomfortably, his forearms locked tight around her shoulders. Tentatively she wrapped her arms around him in return, letting her palms lie flat against the small of his back.

        Her cheek was pressed into the rough fabric of his vest, and she took a deep inhale, breathing him in. Something aching within her felt like it was being slowly extruded the longer her held onto her, and she pinched her face, trying to rein it in.

        Joshua said nothing as he pulled her tighter and tighter against him—within moments Joan could feel every contour of his thighs and waist against her.

        The tightness of the hug felt like an apology; the day of the Legion attack he had apologized for not listening to her, but he had said nothing of the past several months. Bound in his arms now, she felt that he was remorseful for those things—for burning her, for the violent way he had taken her their first time, for each snapping of her forefinger. Joan knew all too well what it was like to be too ashamed to apologize for hurting someone—Veronica flashed across her mind briefly—and she could accept that there were some words that were too difficult to express openly. She returned his embrace, lacing her arms around his waist as tightly as she could.


	25. Stand By Me

Chapter 25: Stand By Me

_If the sky that we look upon should tumble and fall, and the mountains should crumble to the sea; I won't cry, no I won't shed a tear, just as long as you stand by me_

        Joshua was standing with his feet spread evenly apart from each other, shoulders squared yet relaxed, his bandaged hands firm around the snakeskin grip of his pistol. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, even in the biting December cold of the valley. Joan watched him fire round and after round at the paper target in front of him, so densely peppered with holes that it looked like a night sky. The center of the target was almost completely disintegrated at this point, and Joshua moved on, focusing his aim on the target’s crudely painted head instead.

        Despite its earsplitting loudness, the sound of gunfire was relaxing, and Joan let herself lean further into the base of the tree she was sitting against. Thin spiders of pain were chewing at her lower back, but they had grown tolerable over the past hour as she sat watching Joshua practice.

        He twisted around to look at her, diverting his attention for the first time since they’d arrived at his makeshift shooting range that stood overlooking the camp, and she lifted her hand from her belly and waved at him. He watched her for a moment before his eyes flicked downward to the pistol in his hand.

        “Would you like to try?” he asked as he approached her. Joan looked up at him, her eyebrows raised with surprise. For the past month they had gotten along very well, but she could hardly believe that he was willing to hand her a loaded weapon. The thought that she would use it against him seemed as distant as a particularly bad nightmare to her now, but it seemed unusual that Joshua would have been as quick to forget the last time she’d had a loaded gun in her hands.

        He stared at her, and she sensed that he must have been thinking the same thing; she stood quickly, not wanting to give him a reason to doubt her. He seemed to relax as much as she did, and she recalled his promise to forgive and forget.

        “Are you sure?” she asked hesitantly. Joshua nodded at her.

        “I said I would fix up that pistol for you,” he said. “But I see no point unless you’re proficient with it. How is your finger? Do you think you can shoot?”

        Joan looked down at her forefinger before giving it an experimental flex. The burn had been fully healed for a long time, settling into a thick scar that was as reddish black as the scars that masked Joshua’s entire body. The only difference now was that her finger had a curious bend to it, the tip jutting slightly to the right, creating a small gap between the knuckles of her first and middle fingers. The last break had taken a little longer to heal than the first, but it was fine now, if perhaps a little stiff.

        “It’s fine,” she said. Joshua turned and walked back to the paper targets, positioning himself several yards from one that was relatively unharmed. Joan waddled across the cold stones of the cliff to join him.

        “You know, you’ll probably have to teach me how to do this all over again, after I’ve…” she trailed off. The thought of _after_ was still frightening to her; she prayed every day that there would _be_ an after, and that she wouldn’t meet the same fate that Passing Dawn had.

        “No one learns how to properly use a firearm in a single lesson,” Joshua said, handing his pistol to her. The snakeskin grips were warm in her hand; as she lifted the gun to take aim, she recalled that she had never been very good with a pistol, despite the best efforts of Sunny Smiles back in Goodsprings.

        “I’m terrible at this anyway,” she said, squeezing one eye shut as she looked down the trench sights at the target. Joshua stood to the side, watching her with his hands on his hips.

        Joan steadied her breath and pulled the trigger, wincing at the lightning bolts of pain that shot up her wrists and forearms; the gun rocketed upward, almost bucking straight out of her hands from the recoil. She opened both eyes again and looked at the target, groaning. The shot hadn’t even hit it.

        “Try again,” Joshua said. Joan obeyed him and took two more shots. The first managed to nick the wooden frame that supported the target, and the third completely missed. She narrowed her eyes, growing irritated.

        “God _damn_ it,” she murmured. Joshua looked sharply at her, and she averted her eyes, thrusting his pistol back at him.

        “I told you that I’m bad at this,” she said. “I have that rifle that I used when the Legion attacked us. I can make do with that.”

        For a hot moment she fiercely missed her trusty sniper rifle—it had been at the bottom of the Eastern Virgin for so long, she was certain it must be rusted beyond reasonable repair now.

        She closed her eyes and took another breath instead, determined to let go of the past as Joshua had done.

        When she opened them again, she saw that Joshua was still offering his pistol to her, his blackened fingers around the barrel, the butt of the gun facing her.

        For an instant she saw it flying through the air, into the sharp bone of Vulpes Inculta’s cheek; she decided then that she didn’t want to merely _make do_ , but that she wanted to _thrive_. More sharply than she’d intended, she swiped the pistol out of Joshua’s hand, twisting and lining up another shot with aggravation.

        “Wait.”

        Joshua stepped behind her, and she startled as she felt his warm hands fall on her hips, gently rearranging the stance of her feet. At first she dug her heels into the ground against him.

        “You’re not going to shoot very well if you’re worked up,” Joshua said softly, his bandaged face close to her ear. Joan swallowed, a shiver coursing through her shoulders.

        “Relax your arms, but keep your grip as firm as you can comfortably tolerate,” Joshua commanded her. She exhaled loudly and did as he told her.

        “And keep both eyes open—you’re at enough of a disadvantage with your eyesight as it is, there’s no need to further handicap yourself,” Joshua continued dryly. Joan snorted, but obeyed, opening both eyes and focusing on the target in front of her.

        “Now try again,” Joshua said as he continued to hover behind her.

        Joan took a steadying breath and tried to clear her head of frustration. _This isn’t that different from my old rifle_ , she thought before finally pulling the trigger again.

        The recoil wasn’t nearly so bad this time, and she found that her stance absorbed much more of the impact than it had before. A smile spread across her face as she saw a neat black hole just outside the center circle of the target. Invigorated, she squeezed off another couple shots, enjoying how much more rapidly this gun was capable of firing. Each shot struck the target, and she went ahead and emptied the rest of the magazine into it.

        She had just turned to Joshua, her face bright with excitement, when a stab of agony cut through her lower back and stomach with enough force that she wailed. She stumbled into him, and he quickly seized her arm, hauling her upright.

        “What is it?” he asked sharply. Joan sagged against him, panting and groaning, her shoulders trembling. The pistol slipped out of her hands, clattering to the dusty rock; Joshua ignored it, giving her upper arm a small shake as he asked her again what was wrong.

        “ _Oh God_.” She reached around and clenched her fist against the small of her back. “It hurts, it hurts so goddamn _much_ ,” she whined, blinking back tears of pain.

        Her back and abdomen had hurt intermittently for the past month or so, but those pains had been small and insignificant compared to this. Joan arched her back, her mouth wrenching into a rectangle of misery as she pitched into Joshua, who stumbled to keep her upright. Unconcealed alarm was on his face, and he immediately started pulling her toward the small path that led to the camp below them.

        “Do you think it’s time?” he asked, hurrying her along as best as he could. Tears ran steadily down Joan’s face as her bare feet shuffled against the cold earth.

        “Fuck, _fuck_ ,” she whimpered, her hands icy as terror rolled through her. “I’m not ready, I’m not ready for this, I can’t do it, oh God, oh God—”

        Her cries devolved into rapid-fire murmurs that ran together too quickly to be intelligible. She and Joshua were halfway down the path when he halted, turning to face her and planting his palms firmly against her shoulders.

        “Look at me,” he commanded. She sniffed loudly before obeying him, her chin weak as she tilted her face upward to meet his eyes.

        “You can do this,” Joshua continued. “You’ve endured much worse than this. All you have to do is hold out a little longer. If God won’t ensure that nothing terrible happens to you, then _I_ will. I’ll be at your side for every moment, but you have to trust me, and put your faith in the Lord. _You_ will be fine. _Our child_ will be fine. Don’t forget what you’re capable of.”

        Joan’s chest heaved as she stared at him, agony still raking apart her insides, but after a moment she gave him a single decisive nod. Joshua was right; she had gone toe to toe with Vulpes Inculta, she had endured debridement and burning, and she had killed Caesar. She could do this.

        “Okay. I trust you,” she said, meeting his gaze as steadily as the pain would allow her. Of her own accord, she turned and began to hastily march down the path before them, and Joshua followed by her side, guiding her gently with one hand on her elbow and the other on the small of her back.

 

***

        Joshua Graham led Joan into the Angel Cave, seating her at the fire before quickly heading back outside to search for Waking Cloud.

        God was paying particular notice to them today, it seemed; Joshua spotted Waking Cloud making her way up the stream with her children in tow, heading out into the wilds of Zion.

        Though he had carefully concealed this from Joan, Joshua couldn’t help but feel a thread of unwelcome tension in his own stomach—he had absolute faith in God, but the fate of Passing Dawn had weighed heavily on all of them, and it wasn’t difficult to imagine the same fate befalling Joan. She looked even smaller and younger than she already was, pale and trembling, but trying her hardest to be strong and resolute. The sight of her desperately trying to hold herself together had caused a sharp ache in his chest, and it had been almost painful to look at her then; it was better, _easier_ , to be proactive and leave her, only just for a moment, to find Waking Cloud.

        He squared himself, dashing up the stream after her. There was no point in dwelling on the future; the present was the only thing that he held control over, and therefore all that mattered.

        “Waking Cloud,” he called, his voice booming across the narrow channel. She abruptly turned to face him, as did her small children, their eyes dark and watchful.

        “Joshua? What is wrong?” she asked, her eyebrows arching as he met her.

        “I believe it’s time,” he said gravely. Waking Cloud immediately lit up with excitement before turning and bidding her eldest son to watch over the other children.

        “That is wonderful news!” she said brightly, following Joshua as he spun and marched back up the stream.

        “You’re prepared? You have everything that you need?” Joshua asked her.

        “Yes. She is in good hands, Joshua,” she replied. “She has been in fine health, and she is a good, strong woman. Neither of you need to worry—what happened to Passing Dawn was not usual.”

        Joshua cast Waking Cloud small glance out of the corner of his eye.

        “This is my child we’re talking about. I would never expect any kind of preferential treatment, but I want you to be direct. If there are any problems, don’t try to conceal them from me.”

        Waking Cloud thrust her tanned hands into the air.

        “You know the reality of life out in the wilderness, Joshua,” she said. “If anything happens, I’ll come for you right away, but—”

        “I’ll be present for the birth.”

        Waking Cloud faltered, her hands lowering.

        “That is not so good an idea, Joshua, it is very unlucky—”

        “I don’t care,” he said stiffly. “You’re entitled to your traditions, but I draw the line when they involve me. Believe whatever you like, but I’m going to do what I want—I promised Joan that I would stay by her side, and she wants me to. I’ll stay out of your way as you work, but I’m not going to leave.”

        He turned his head, focusing the intensity of his gaze on Waking Cloud. Her mouth worked for a moment, and it was evident that there was more that she wanted to say on this matter, but she was biting her tongue. Finally she nodded at him, looking temporarily displeased.

        “As you wish, Joshua. I still do not think it is wise, but I see I cannot change your mind.”

        “Good.” Joshua replied as they arrived at the mouth of the cave. Even from outside, he could hear Joan’s reedy moans of pain. He sped up and entered, finding her leaning against the stone wall, her forehead damp and shiny.

        “Oh Joan, I can tell just by looking at you that the time is here!” Waking Cloud said cheerfully, kneeling down in front of her. Joan groaned in response; she might have said something, but it was muffled to Joshua’s ears. He lowered himself onto the log by the fire, resting his forearms on his knees as he watched them.

        “It may still be a day or two before you deliver,” Waking Cloud continued. “Lift up your dress, and I can check how far along you are.”

        Joan obediently lifted her skirt, and Waking Cloud’s eyebrows rose.

        “Oh—you’ll need to remove those too,” she said, indicating Joan’s garments. Joshua continued to watch as Waking Cloud helped Joan stand and undress, removing the pristine white clothing from beneath her dress as well. Joan sagged against the wall again as soon as she was nude, apparently in too much pain to care about being exposed. Her breasts—still small, but certainly much larger than they had been when they’d first met—lay propped upon the enormous swell of her stomach, her nipples rosy against her pale flesh. Joshua shifted his legs before looking away.

        A startled squawk pierced the cavern and he immediately whipped his head back around to look at them before his eyebrows arched so severely that they disappeared under the bandages that covered his face; Joan’s legs were spread, and Waking Cloud’s hand was between her thighs, her fore and middle fingers thrust entirely inside Joan.

        “What the fuck are you doing!” Joan shrieked, her face so bright that it rivaled the crimson meat of a tato. She had scrambled to obscure her breasts with her hands, huffing and indignant looking as she backed her hips against the wall, trying unsuccessfully to escape Waking Cloud.

        “Sit still, I need to do this,” Waking Cloud scolded her. Joshua’s gaze seemed to be glued to the point where Waking Cloud’s tanned fingers disappeared; with effort he wrenched his eyes away, staring pointedly at the wall. He knew nothing about the intimate intricacies of childbirth, and was determined to defer to Waking Cloud’s surely superior judgment in these matters, trusting that there was a good reason why her fingers were buried to the knuckle inside Joan.

        Joan did not seem as eager to relinquish control, sputtering half cocked threats and curses at the other woman—Waking Cloud was patient, but it seemed even she had limits.

        “I need to see how… _how_ … argh,” she ground her teeth together before turning and facing Joshua, who continued to meet no one’s eyes in the room.

        “ _I need to see how dilated she is_ ,” she said, speaking rapidly in Res. “ _Tell her that I am not trying to do anything strange to her, but that I need to gauge how far along in the birth she is. When she has opened up enough, she will be ready to deliver, and I will be prepared to help her. She needs to sit still, so that I can work. Tell her that_!”

        Joan’s eyes were bouncing back and forth between them as Waking Cloud spoke, furious to not be included in this interaction as she continued to squirm beneath Waking Cloud’s hands.

        “Sit still!” Joshua said, finally directed his eyes to Joan’s. She immediately shrank at the blunt tone of his words. He was beginning to regret his promise to stay by her side for this; it was becoming readily apparent why the Sorrows and Dead Horses did not allow men to be present during birth, and it seemed to have little to do with superstitions. Still, he was determined to keep his word, so he schooled his tone into something softer as he continued.

        “She needs to feel how open your… ah…” he trailed off, growing uncomfortable again. The renewed color that flourished in Joan’s chest and face made it clear that she mirrored his feelings on the matter.

        “Just sit still,” he said grudgingly. “Let her do her work, and this will be over faster for the both of you.”

        Waking Cloud nodded sagely, and Joan leaned back against the wall of the cave again, still looking mortified. Waking Cloud inserted two fingers into Joan again, and Joshua stared at the ceiling, lacing his fingers tightly between his knees.

        His gun was still lying abandoned at the range, it occurred to him.

        “I’ll be right back,” he said, pulling himself quickly to his feet.

        Joan shot him a scowl so intense that for a moment she better resembled a deathclaw than a small woman.

        “You said you would fucking stay,” she growled at him. Joshua narrowed his eyes at her.

        “My gun is outside,” he replied. “I don’t want it to get tarnished if it rains. I’ll only be gone a few minutes. Nothing is even happening right now anyway, you’ll be fine.”

        Joan’s small hands balled into fists, her knuckles pale.

        “You son of a bitch,” Joan snapped. “The entire reason this happened is because of _you_! If you didn’t want your stupid fucking gun to get wet, then you should have thought about that before leaving it—take some goddamn responsibility for something for once in your life!”

        Joshua stared at her for several moments, glad that his bandages were concealing the slackness of his jaw. Abruptly he closed his mouth, his teeth snapping together.

        “ _Fine_ ,” he replied. He had no other comeback for what she had said, and they both knew it, so he let his weight fall heavily back to the log he had been sitting on. He laced his blackened fingertips between his knees again, creating a small bridge between them. Joan settled back, grimacing in pain once more, and Waking Cloud finally pulled away from her, having ignored their outburst.

        “Well, there is good news,” she said, staring at her damp fingertips, which were purposefully spaced apart. “I do not think you will have to wait nearly as long as Passing Dawn did—you are already quite open. It is a good thing I happened to be here in the camp; if Joshua had not caught me when he did, I do not know that I would have arrived in time!”

        It was enough of a distraction that the tension between Joshua and Joan evaporated, and they both directed their full attention to Waking Cloud.

        “So how long will it be then?” Joan asked, her voice high pitched and squeaky once more.

        “Probably only a few hours,” she replied, standing before making her way around the cave to gather the supplies she would need. “Have the pains been coming regularly?”

        “I don’t fucking know,” Joan said, wincing. “Everything hurts right now, and I don’t exactly have a watch or anything to keep time with.”

        “Alright, alright,” Waking Cloud said. “Then I will leave you here with Joshua for now—I have some other errands to run, but I will be back in time for your birth.”

        Joshua directed his eyes back to the heavens again. _This is it_ , he thought. The fruit of several long—tortuous even, at times—months was nearly upon them. A spark of excitement began to roost in his belly.

        Joan didn’t bother dressing again—she lay against the wall of the cave, her face ruddy with pain, and her hands wrapped around her belly. She was murmuring something to herself, just audibly enough to catch Joshua’s attention. He considered her for a moment before standing and crossing the cave to sit beside her.

        “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked. Joan stilled, her eyes red as she stared at the floor. They immediately welled with tears and she quickly covered her face with her small hands, sniffing loudly.

        “All I want is for you to stay here,” she whispered. “… I’m scared.”

        Those last words stabbed at him with enough force that Joshua grimaced—he pulled himself closer to her, gently hefting her up so that her head was cradled in his lap. She continued to cover her face with her hands, and he could see slivers of bright red between her slender fingers. Over the past few months he had begun to grow familiar and accustomed to physical intimacy in a way that he had never been before, yet it still felt stiffly awkward for him—for both of them really; it wasn’t hard to tell that it was as alien to Joan as well—but he was relaxed enough that he felt comfortable gently resting his hand on Joan’s head and letting his fingertips brush through the fine strands of her black hair.

        Staring down at the crown of her head, Joshua wondered for the first time what their child might look like. Long ago, he had found it better and easier to feign indifference to the way he used to look, in an attempt to make peace with the mangled monster Edward had made of him, but he let the repressed memories surface in his mind now. Not that they were ever truly far away; more often than not, in his dreams and nightmares he appeared as he had ten years ago, and the sensation of the phantom wind ruffling his hair was so viscerally real that it would make his stomach ache when he’d wake up from them.

        He pushed the discomfort aside, focusing instead on their child. They would surely have dark hair, just as both of them possessed. Would they inherit the fairness of Joan’s skin, almost blinding in the radiant desert sunlight? Would they have his eyes? He had always thought that they were one of his more remarkable features. He supposed it didn’t matter—he no longer cared whether Joan bore him a son or a daughter anymore, all he really wanted was for their child to be strong and healthy. They stood a far better chance of that here, in the radiation free valley of Zion, than anywhere else in the wastes.

        “Thank you,” Joan said softly, pulling her hands away from her face, her brow finally relaxing and smoothing. Joshua wasn’t sure what to say, so he said nothing as he continued to sit with her and stroke her hair as she rested her head in his lap, her hand clenching against his thigh with each wave of suffering that overcame her. It wasn’t difficult to tell that the time between each bout of pain was growing shorter and shorter. He murmured to her each time the pain flared up, trying to comfort her; he wasn’t sure she even really heard him, but she seemed to appreciate his efforts all the same as she collapsed against his lap, her wrinkled brow damp with sweat.

        “Shoo, shoo,” Waking Cloud said, approaching him. To Joshua it seemed that barely any time at all had elapsed, but he could see that the sun had disappeared outside the Angel Cave, washing the camp in pale moonlight. He gently pulled Joan away from him and she struggled to sit up, her thin chest rising and falling as she gasped with pain. Joshua hastily stepped aside and Waking Cloud took his place, gathering pails of water and towels around her.

        The excitement in Joshua’s belly morphed into apprehension as he watched Joan prepare for birth; Waking Cloud’s voice seemed distant to his ears as she began to coax Joan into rhythmically breathing and pushing. The only sounds that truly registered were Joan’s bellows and shrieks of agony, much more terrible than any he had heard from her before. He was no stranger to agony; the sounds of her screams prickled his skin, and he was certain he would have developed goosebumps if the ravaged landscape of his flesh would have allowed it. She was red in the face, her black hair plastered to her forehead and cheeks as she howled and cursed while he watched her, flexing his fingertips in anxious silence.

        “Here it comes,” Waking Cloud said expectantly. Without thinking, Joshua leapt to his feet, standing over her shoulder and looking down. The scene below was visceral, even compared to what he had seen during his time serving as Edward’s Legate: from between Joan’s thighs something was beginning to emerge, and he bit his tongue, holding his breath.

        Joan thrashed and screamed again, and it was loud enough that Joshua flinched—he tore his eyes away from between her thighs and instead knelt beside her, seizing her hand in his own.

        “You can do this,” he said, echoing the words of encouragement he’d given to her earlier. Joan’s eyes were rolling madly, but the sound of his voice seemed to jerk her back to reality; her eyes landed on him, and she was fully present again, her gaze sharp, yet brimming with unmistakable affection.

        “I could fucking kill you for doing this,” she growled. Joshua couldn’t stifle a small laugh, even as she clenched her small hand around his so tightly that it actually managed to make his fingers ache.

        “I know,” he replied, leaning over and scraping some of the sweat slicked hair away from her forehead. “But I’m by your side, whether you’ll have me or not.”

        Joan gave him something that would have resembled a smile if her face hadn’t been twisted with agony, and he returned it, letting her squeeze his hand again.

        With a final roar of pain, Joan curled in on herself, bearing down and pushing as hard as she could, and her efforts were finally rewarded—with a rushing wetness, Waking Cloud caught their baby, still tethered to Joan by a raw looking cord of flesh. Joshua’s eyes immediately seized upon the child, though he maintained his grasp on Joan’s hand as she sagged against the wall of the cave, gasping and wheezing as tears streamed down her face.

        Waking Cloud was smiling broadly at the delicate parcel in her arms. Joshua stared wide eyed at it, his breath trapped in his throat again; a moment later a shrill cry pierced the cave as his baby wailed, and the breath shot out of his lungs in a hard exhale.

        “No wonder you were so big,” Waking Cloud said to Joan, grinning as she began to gently pat the infant down with one of the clean towels by her side. “He is a large baby! Must be taking after Joshua.”

        Joshua’s eyes lit up at the confirmation that his desire had actually come to pass, but he restrained himself, tearing his eyes away and looking back at Joan. She looked up at him and gave him a thin smile.

        “I did it… I fucking did it,” she breathed, her eyes slightly out of focus. She took a deep, shaky inhale, quivering with shockwaves of pain and delight. _I did it_ , she thought, looking into Joshua’s bright blue eyes. He looked happier than she had ever seen him; in fact it was almost strange to see his eyes so boldly lit up with unrestrained joy.

        “Are you alright?” he asked her. Her smile grew broader, and for a moment she thought she would weep again. She had been certain that he would immediately leave her side for the baby—their son, she thought dazedly, still reeling with the unreality of it—but he was taking a moment to ask after her, even though she knew he wanted nothing more than to take in their child.

        “I knew you didn’t just care about the baby,” she wheezed, too tired to conceal her true thoughts and feelings from him. “I knew you cared about me.”

        Joshua wrapped his arm around her, giving her a brief squeeze.

        “We endured this together,” he said. Joan buried her face into his shoulder before pushing him away, directing her attention back to Waking Cloud. She was holding their son up, and Joan’s breath hitched to look at him: he had a thin tumbleweed of black hair on his scalp, and his tiny face was scrunched up as he continued to bellow, his tiny fists flailing in the air. Joan had just reached out for him when Joshua leapt to his feet—in a flash he had relieved Waking Cloud of their baby, holding him up and gazing at him, his pale blue eyes wide with wonder. Joan pursed her lips, dryly unsurprised.

        “A son,” Joshua murmured reverently, staring at their child. Waking Cloud had already severed the cord that linked them with a blade, and was busying herself with cleaning up as Joan watched Joshua. The hint of annoyance melted away as she took them in. _My family_ , she thought, glowing with affection again. _The only thing that matters in this life_.

        “We’ll call him Nephi,” Joshua continued as he stared at their son, who had finally ceased to cry. “Just as my father was called.”

        Joan’s eye’s shot open wide. Joshua had never spoken of his family before, and she’d had no idea what his father’s name was, let alone the tremendous biblical significance it held. Joshua continued to stare down at their son, cradling him in his arms, uncaring that his shirt was growing stained with the waxy substance that still clung to their baby.

        After a few minutes, he finally turned to Joan; without hesitation she extended her palms, and Joshua placed their son into them. Her arms immediately trembled and sagged beneath the weight of Nephi—he must have been at least eight pounds, easy.

        All it once it occurred to Joan that she had never held a baby before in her life, and she hefted him up stiffly, abruptly terrified with uncertainty.

        Joshua swiftly interceded, cupping his hand under Nephi’s head and arranging Joan’s arms properly, seating their son into them securely. Joan paled as she held him, the terror continuing to roll through her. She was staring blankly at the wall before she finally forced herself to look down at him—she gasped.

        Nephi was looking directly up at her, his eyes as brightly bold and blue as his father’s; it struck Joan that although it had taken both Joshua and herself to make him, that Nephi was _hers—_ and in that moment she was _his_. She cradled him to her bare chest, a shaky nervous laugh bubbling out of her throat.

        “ _Nephi_ ,” she whispered. He still felt strange in her arms, and the moment was utterly surreal, but she was certain of one thing: she loved him. For all the months of hell she had endured, the terror, the fighting, the uncertainty, the pain; she loved him, and immediately knew that she would do anything for him. She couldn’t restrain the fresh tears that poured down her cheeks; Joshua joined her, and they sat side by side, cradling their son.

        “He’s beautiful,” Joshua said, leaning over her and affectionately thumbing Nephi’s cheek. “I prayed for you night and day, Nephi… Thank God you’ve come to us safely. You were worth the wait.”

        Joan pulled a towel across her hips before leaning against Joshua, pressing her cheek into the dashed trail of circles on his sleeve. He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close.

        “I already can’t wait for the next one,” Joshua said absently, continuing to stoke Nephi’s chubby cheek. Joan’s eyes snapped open wide, but she remained silent—though she was delighted beyond all measure to have Nephi, she was too tired to even contemplate the next day, let alone the idea of going through this _again_.

        That would be a conversation for the future however—for now she wanted to savor the moment with her family.

***

        After a little while, Joshua withdrew something from one of his vest pockets, and a shiny glint caught Joan’s eye; she paled as she saw a familiar knife in Joshua’s hand.

        “What are you doing?” she asked, instinctively drawing Nephi closer to her breast.

        “This is a ritual that’s important to my tribe,” Joshua replied calmly, reaching out for Nephi. Joan leaned away from him, narrowing her eyes.

        “What is it?” she demanded. Joshua met her eyes and challenge sparked between them. She stared boldly back, unafraid of invoking his ire; she didn’t believe that Joshua would do anything to harm to their son—especially not after the lengths to which he had gone to preserve Nephi’s life—but he owed her an explanation for what he intended to do, at the very least.

        “And don’t give me any cryptic bullshit,” she spat. Joshua’s eyebrows shot up, but she proceeded hotly. “I gave birth to him; you can tell me what _exactly_ you plan on doing to him.”

        Joshua narrowed his eyes before relenting.

        “Fine. It’s custom for male members of my tribe to have a portion of flesh removed from the penis.”

        Joan’s eyes widened and she stared incredulously at him, tugging Nephi so close to her chest that he began to whimper. Joan immediately relaxed her grip, and he settled again.

        “You’re going to do _what_?”

        “It’s exactly what it sounds like,” Joshua said, lifting his hands disarmingly. “It’s just a small cut, he’ll barely even feel it. I’m going to go sterilize this knife; the ritual is as safe as can be, I assure you.”

        Joan tracked the blade with her eyes, uncomfortably aware of the last time Joshua had had to sterilize that knife. She ran her thumb against her forefinger nervously. Joshua grew exasperated as he pulled himself to his feet, still carrying the open blade.

        “But why?” she asked, staring up at him.

        “It’s a direct law from God,” Joshua replied evenly. “He commanded the Canaanites to practice this ritual, and so we have, for thousands of years now. I’ve endured it, every tribal that’s converted has endured it, and that’s the way it’s always been. Now hand me Nephi so that I can take care of this. It won’t be long, and then you can have him right back.”

        Joan’s eyes bounced nervously back and forth between Joshua and her son. She deliberated for several tense moments before looking back up at Joshua with resolve.

        “Go and sterilize the knife, but I want you do it down here. Nephi is mine just as much as he is yours.”

        Joshua considered her for a moment.

        “That’s fair,” Joshua finally replied, and Joan let herself relax. She cradled Nephi to her breast as Joshua crossed the room to exit the cave, carrying one of the empty pails in his hand.

        A moment after Joshua exited the cave, Waking Cloud reappeared, looking radiant and happy.

        “You must be the proud mother right now, Joan!” she said, kneeling beside her and settling down. “How are you feeling?”

        “Tired. Really fucking tired,” Joan said, slumping back against the cave wall again. She was still basking in the joy of her new family, but if she closed her eyes she knew she would be asleep within seconds. She sat back up, giving her head a quick shake to keep herself awake.

        She dimly registered something pawing at her, and looked down; Nephi was nuzzling against her, his tiny hands clawing at the reddened flesh of her breast. She arched her eyebrows at him.

        “What is it?” she asked, smiling at him in an attempt to display playfulness. _I have no fucking idea what I’m doing_ , she mentally shrieked. Still, she put on a brave front for him.

        “He is hungry,” Waking Cloud interjected. She leaned toward Joan and wrapped her tanned fingers around Joan’s breast.

        “Alright, that’s _enough_ ,” Joan snapped, jerking away from Waking Cloud, the playful smile instantly vanishing from her face; she was thoroughly annoyed with being touched so much, especially without asking. Waking Cloud arched her eyebrows, but obediently withdrew away.

        Her outburst over, Joan paled at the mention of Nephi needing to be fed—rationally she knew that this was expected of her, but the idea had seemed a distant unreality. Now that she was faced with it, she began to sweat and grow anxious.

        “Just… just tell me what to do, okay?” Joan said, cradling Nephi’s head with her palm and freeing her other hand.

        “It is not so difficult. It would really be easier if I could just show you though,” Waking Cloud said. “I am not so good with the English words for this, and Joshua is not here to translate for me.”

        “We could wait,” Joan said, brimming with nervousness. “He said he’ll be right back—”

        “Joan,” Waking Cloud said sternly, looking her directly in the face. “You need to be open to learning from me, and from the other women of the tribe. I have nursed three babies now, and I know what I am talking about. You cannot do this alone, and Joshua cannot do everything for you.”

        Hot color rose in Joan’s cheeks and she looked away, her ears burning red.

        A minute of silence passed before Nephi began to wriggle in her arms, small bubbly cries erupting from his tiny mouth. Joan’s throat immediately constricted, and she looked down at him.

_I can do this… if it’s for you_ , she thought, hoping that the depth of her feelings would somehow convey themselves to him. _You’re worth it. I would do anything for you._

        “Alright,” Joan sighed, twisting her body to face Waking Cloud. “Show me what to do.”

        Waking Cloud’s face softened and she reached out for Joan before pausing.

        “May I?” she asked, staring pointedly at Joan. Joan gave her a tired, appreciative smile.

        “Go ahead.”

        Waking Cloud carefully pulled Nephi’s face away from Joan before rearranging her breast, so that her small nipple was facing him. She beckoned to Joan to lift her hand; Joan obliged, and Waking Cloud gently used Joan’s fingertips to prod Nephi’s cheek, directing him toward her nipple. He seemed confused for a moment, still bleating out shrill little cries, and then his mouth finally found her flesh. Joan stared fascinated as his tiny mouth yawned open wide before taking her entire nipple inside. He clamped onto her then and Joan winced, the sensation strange and slightly unpleasant. She continued to support Nephi’s head as his minute mouth worked at her, and for a few minutes nothing seemed to be happening.

        “Do not worry,” Waking Cloud said. “Sometimes this happens. If you cannot make milk, one of the other women will be able to feed him for you.”

        Joan paled and reflexively pulled Nephi closer to her breast; she could not bear the thought of another woman feeding her son. She could not bear the thought of failing at motherhood already, barely an hour after giving birth—Nephi had become her everything, and she wanted to be _his_ everything in return.

        Fortunately it seemed that pulling Nephi closer had been just what he needed—a moment later he relaxed against her and began to suck, swallowing rhythmically. Joan sagged against the wall of the cave and sighed, her heart drumming inside her chest.

        “That is wonderful!” Waking Cloud said, beaming and patting Joan’s shoulder. Joan closed her eyes, and for a moment she was on the verge of passing out—heeled footsteps entering the cave jerked her awake again.

        “ _Oh_ ,” Joshua said. The knife was still in his hand, dripping water to the floor of the cave. His brows were arched high as he stared at Joan and Nephi; Waking Cloud hopped to her feet and gave them a small wave as she departed the cave, leaving the small family to their privacy. Joshua swiftly crossed the cavern and joined her, staring at his son.

        “You’re feeding him,” he said. Joan twisted her head and looked at him, arching her eyebrow.

        “What… you didn’t think I could?” she asked defensively.

        Joshua shook his head before tentatively reaching out and brushing the scarred pads of his fingers across the wispy black hair that crowned Nephi’s head.

        “No… you just look wonderful,” he said softly. Joan flushed, a small smile blooming across her face. For a long while they sat and watched Nephi feed with fascination; Joshua had looped his arm around Joan again, and she leaned into him, tuning out the strange—and sometimes slightly painful—sensations of Nephi suckling her breast.

        After a time, Nephi finally pulled away from her, and his blue eyes were heavily lidded with satisfaction. His mouth stretched open wide in a yawn then, and he awkwardly pawed at his face; Joan and Joshua stared at him, enamored.

        “I should perform the ritual now,” Joshua said softly. “I know he’s almost asleep, but I don’t want to delay any longer.”

        For the first time since Joshua had passed him to her, Joan handed Nephi back over to him—her arms immediately felt cold and empty as Joshua laid Nephi down on a towel he had prepared, flicking the blade of the knife out once more.

        Nephi squirmed against the towel, making small burbling sounds as he reached out for Joshua, who was looking down at him with affection while quietly shushing him.

        “It will be over soon,” he murmured, lowering the blade.

        Joan stared at them right up until the moment the blade crossed Nephi’s flesh; she quickly jerked her eyes away, and then flinched at the sudden wail that shattered the air of the cave. She forced herself to look back again, determined to be strong—Joshua was quickly swaddling Nephi in the towel and pulling him to his chest, his bandaged hand cupping the back of his head as he murmured to him.

        Nephi continued to shriek for several more minutes as Joshua leaned back against the wall, slowly rocking him while he continued to mutter soft words of empathy and compassion. Joan watched them anxiously, clutching the towel around her hips and belly.

        “Are you sure he’ll be okay?” she asked, her eyebrows forming a worried arc across her forehead. Nephi had finally begun to settle in Joshua’s arms, although he still wore a look of surprisingly fierce dissatisfaction on his small round face.

        “He’ll be fine,” Joshua replied. “I endured it, as did my father before me. It’s his burden to bear, but it’s one that he can withstand. Nephi’s strong, I can already tell.”

        Joan finally let herself lean against Joshua again, burying her face into the woven fabric of his sleeve. At the slight jostling, Nephi began to fuss again.

        “Give him to me,” Joan said on impulse. Joshua hesitated a moment before passing Nephi back to her; as before, he helped Joan arrange him securely in her arms. Immediately Nephi relaxed and fell solemnly quiet, nuzzling his small face against her breast and growing drowsy once more. Joan smiled down at him as Joshua wrapped his arm around her, as he had earlier.

        “I’ve got you,” Joan whispered, smoothing down Nephi’s hair. He made a small noise in return and closed his eyes, his wrinkled brow finally smoothing out. Joan followed suit and leaned her head back against Joshua’s arm, her own eyes fluttering shut. She was asleep within moments, and Joshua sat with them for the rest of the night, supporting both of them as Joan rested against his chest.


	26. Lovesong

Chapter 26: Lovesong

_Whenever I'm alone with you, you make me feel like I am clean again—I will love you, I will make you; I will take you_

        Joan blinked before lifting her hand to her eyes to shield them from the bright morning sunlight that had crested over the enormous red walls of the canyon. After a moment of squinting, she fumbled beside herself, her fingers exploring the warm rocks beside her.

        “Here.”

        Something cold and metal slid into her fingers, and she looked over; Joshua Graham was sitting beside her, close to the fire on this frigid January morning. He had picked up her glasses and placed them in her hand, cradling Nephi to his chest with the other.

        “Thank you,” Joan replied, sitting up and rubbing her eyes before sliding her glasses on. Nephi had shrilly alerted them that he was hungry not just a few hours ago when it was still dark, and Joan had had a difficult time falling back asleep when he was finally finished feeding. She yawned as Joshua passed her a bottle of water before greedily sucking it down.

        A little more than a month had passed since Joan had delivered Nephi; the time had been a blur of sleepless nights and fatigued days for both she and Joshua as they adjusted to the trials of parenthood. Joshua had been easiest to adjust to this—he cited his youth in New Canaan as the source of his relative comfort around children—but Joan was slowly coming around. Joshua no longer had to physically instruct her on how to hold Nephi, and she was beginning to develop a sort of sixth sense regarding when Nephi needed to be fed or changed. Less tolerable was the constant mess that seemed to erupt out of one end or the other of Nephi—it churned Joan’s stomach to even recall the stench such a tiny body was capable of producing—but every time he directed his pale blue eyes at her , she couldn’t help but fall in love with him all over again.

        After a while the two gathered themselves up and dressed before heading into the Angel Cave and then down into the camp below, where they joined the rest of the Dead Horses and Sorrows for breakfast. Though she had felt at first that Waking Cloud hovered too much, she was immensely grateful for the moments of reprieve she was afforded when Waking Cloud would take Nephi into her arms and gently bounce him up and down while Joan quickly ate during mealtimes.

        Joshua directed his focus on the Dead Horse scouts that approached him each morning, delivering updates on the lands around the valley. The 80s had been growing active again, but so far had not dared to come too close to Zion, instead lingering around the outskirts of a ruined city called Kanab. Joshua had directed the scouts to keep a sharp eye on them, his blue eyes flashing furiously at even the distant hint of a threat.

        He looked back at Joan now, who had relieved Waking Cloud of Nephi before pulling him to her chest again, his round face pressed against the black fabric of her dress.

        “I would prefer to be proactive about this,” he said, his pale eyes lingering on Nephi. Joan stared back at him, her lips in a narrow line. The Dead Horses and Sorrows around them began to scatter and clean up the remnants of breakfast.

        “I agree, but…”

        “I know,” Joshua replied solemnly. He reached out and brushed the back of his hand across Nephi’s tiny shoulders. “I can’t be in two places at once. If we deal with the 80s, I have to be there.”

        Joan looked away, frowning.

        “You could just tell the Dead Horses what to do. It’s a single tribe,” she argued. “How much of a threat can they be?”

        “Enough of a threat that they’ve come back time and again,” Joshua continued heatedly. Joan bristled, finally looking back at him.

        “I don’t want—I _can’t_ let anything happen to you,” she said, her voice growing shrill. She still trusted in Joshua’s ability to defend himself—as well as all of them—but now that Nephi was a part of their life, the thought of being left alone was terrifying. She began to anxiously jiggle her thigh up and down, which caused Nephi to knot his tiny hands in her hair.

        “I’ve been doing this for longer than you’ve even been _alive_ ,” Joshua snapped. He looked worn and tired, and the edges of his eyes were ringed with fatigued redness. “I know what I’m doing!”

        At the sharp rise in Joshua’s voice, Nephi began to shriek, and Joan shot Joshua a bitter look, cupping her palms protectively around her son. Joshua looked furiously betrayed for a moment before bringing his fingertips to his temples and massaging them through the weathered fabric of his bandages.

        “It is not my place to intrude…” Waking Cloud interrupted, speaking hesitantly. Both Joshua and Joan snapped their heads up to look at her, each wearing identical expressions of agitation.

        “But,” Waking Cloud continued, “I think perhaps you both could use a small break? Being a parent is the most difficult work one will ever do in this life, and it has been a long month for the two of you. What if you let me look after Nephi this afternoon? I know my children would be delighted to have a little one to play with.”

        Joan clenched her hands around Nephi again, her fingers growing cold, even against the brisk wintery air in the valley. This was not missed by Waking Cloud.

        “It takes a village to raise a child—and you two did not… always get along so well, before Nephi came along,” Waking Cloud continued, speaking as though she was very carefully selecting her words. “Just a few hours to spend some time with each other alone would be good for you both, I think. I had to do the same thing with my first husband, when my eldest was born. It would be good for you.”

        Joan looked to Joshua—to her dismay, he was looking at her as if he was waiting for _her_ to decide what to do. She bit her lip and nervously bounced Nephi in her arms. Since he had been born, Nephi had never been more than a few feet away from her at all times. Even as they slept at night—sprawled outside of the lean-to on the furs that Joshua laid out for them each evening, the three huddling together on the cold rocks by the warm fire—Nephi was always right by her side. The idea of being separated from him, even for a few hours, ignited greater fear in her than she had felt when she faced Legate Lanius at Hoover Dam.

        For a tense moment she thought of his bloodied mask, surely still hanging in her suite back at the Lucky 38.

        She quickly brushed away the thought of her old life, redirecting her attention to Waking Cloud.

        “I don’t know…”

        “You can’t remain by his side all the time,” Waking Cloud said, holding her palms up disarmingly. “I will not try to convince you if you are not ready, but the offer is open.”

        As she turned away to leave them, Joan gritted her teeth.

        “Just a few hours?” she asked. The thought of her old life had been just enough to remind her of how wonderful it had felt to do everything independently. Her shoulders and elbows ached from constantly carrying Nephi, and for a moment the thought of her hands being empty was more alluring than Med-X had ever been.

        Waking Cloud turned around with a small laugh.

        “I will be right here in the camp, I am not stealing him from you,” she said. “You can come right back and get him. What do you say, Joshua?”

        Joshua had remained silent the entire time, and Joan looked back at him. He looked similarly indecisive. After a minute he glanced at Joan, and for a surreal moment it was as if she could see inside his head—a refreshing change from the penetrating looks he usually gave her.

        “Alright,” Joan said. “Let me feed him, and then you can take him for the afternoon.”

        Waking Cloud smiled at Joan, and Joan felt a rush of warmth run down to her fingertips, abruptly certain that she had made the right decision. She hefted Nephi in her arms—how heavy he was already—and carried him into the Angel Cave to settle by the fire. Joshua followed her, but stood lingering at the mouth of the cave.

        “I’m going to leave some instructions with the Dead Horses,” he said. “I’ll be outside when you’re finished. And…” he trailed off for a moment, looking her up and down. “I think that was a wise decision.”

        Joan flushed as he spun and left before setting Nephi down by the fire and quickly unzipping her dress. She grumbled as she disrobed, deciding that at some point she needed to acquire clothes that would allow her to feed Nephi without having to strip down entirely.

        Joan settled and picked Nephi up again, and within a few minutes he had latched onto her, his hands curled into minute fists against her breast as he suckled. Joan tilted her head back and allowed herself to doze as he fed, desperate to make up even a few minutes of the sleep she had been deprived of during the past month. After a half an hour or so, Nephi finally began to slow down, his pale blue eyes drooping as he pulled away from her. She gave her head a jerky shake to wake herself up and, as gently as she could, set him back down so that she could get dressed again. He was content to lie on the fur that covered the floor and burble at her as she zipped up her dress again. She gave him a smile before scooping him back into her arms.

        “I know you’ll be okay without me,” she murmured as she walked out into the milky winter sunlight.

        “Just… Please, God, don’t let anything happen to him while I’m gone,” she finished anxiously, spotting Waking Cloud across the camp. She walked slowly, savoring the reassuring weight of Nephi against her breast while she could.

        “Do not look so worried,” Waking Cloud said as she closed the distance between Joan and herself. “Nephi will be in excellent hands. I am a midwife after all; who in this camp knows babies better than I do?”

        “Fair enough,” Joan said. She lifted Nephi and gazed at him before leaning forward and placing a small kiss against his forehead. He scrunched his eyes up and batted at her chin; Joan smiled.

        “Be… be good, alright?” she said awkwardly. Nephi made a small gurgle at her as if in response, and Joan pressed another kiss to his forehead, the thought of letting him go making her stomach twist.

        Then Waking Cloud was gently taking him out of her hands, cradling him to her own chest. He fussed for a moment before settling against her, his eyes fluttering shut again.

        “So what will you do today?” Waking Cloud asked. Joan stood with her arms dangling awkwardly by her sides.

        “I have no idea,” she responded, her head foggy and tired. “I guess I’ll see what Joshua wants to do. I just don’t have any idea at all.”

        Waking Cloud shifted Nephi in her arms, juggling him against her hip so that she could reach out and give Joan’s shoulder a reassuring pat.

        “It is strange at first, but this will be good for you.”

        “If you say so,” Joan said, giving Nephi one final long look before turning away from him.

        Across the camp, Joshua was sitting by the fire, one knee drawn up as usual; his head was bowed, and he looked lost in thought. She quickly crossed the camp to join him.

        Joan hovered awkwardly beside him for a moment before he finally looked up at her.

        “Sorry,” he said. “I’m a little more tired than usual.”

        “I am too,” Joan said. Then there was silence between them as they continued to stare at each other, as if neither knew quite what to do.

        It occurred to Joan that this was the first time in nearly a year that it was truly just the two of them. Their entire relationship—at least since Joshua had coerced her into staying in Zion—had revolved around Nephi. Joan bounced back and forth on her heels nervously. They had gotten along very well before the birth, but since then their lives had been completely and utterly devoted to their son. Now that she thought of it, she couldn’t even recall the last time they had spoken about anything other than Nephi, and even then, they were usually so tired that more often than not they communicated solely via glances and briefly exchanged single sentences.

        Joshua slowly pulled himself to his feet, and Joan stood back to give him space, bringing her hands in front of her stomach—it felt almost strange for it to be so flat now, at least comparative to what it had been for the past several months—and knotting them together, letting the scarred underside of her forefinger rest against the back of her hand.

        Joshua looked down at her, and she gazed back up at him, faint color creeping up from beneath the collar of her dress and spreading its way up her jaw.

        “Would you like to go for a walk?” Joshua asked. The flush on Joan’s face deepened, and she bit back a small smile.

        “I would love that.”

        He led her down the shoreline before stepping into the chilly waters of the Eastern Virgin. Another new thing, it dawned on her—she had not left the camp in months, not since her escape attempt. Abrupt excitement coursed through her as she recalled her old wanderlust: she had always hated being sedentary and staying still; she had lived to move and be active, and to see and delight in things. She quickly matched Joshua’s pace, her feet—clad in her old shoes, now that they finally fit again—splashing in the water. Joshua looked down at her, and the web of wrinkles around his eyes bunched with a smile.

        “You haven’t been outside the camp in some time,” he remarked as they made their way up the stream, avoiding the traps that lined the bed of the river. “I think Waking Cloud was right—this is a good idea.”

        The two spent a few hours wandering around Zion, enjoying the cool air in the valley as they admired the beauty of God’s temple on earth. It had been so long since Joan had passed through it that most of the sights had grown dim in her mind, and she gladly listened to Joshua explain them to her as they toured the park. For a while it was as though the past year hadn’t happened at all; she thought of the last time they had strolled the valley together and smiled to herself, recalling the glow of affection she’d felt on that warm, rainy afternoon.

        “I want to see the Red Gate,” she said, pulling Joshua’s attention from the prewar ranger station he had been pointing out to her. He paused and looked sheepish for a moment, glancing at her hand before swiftly looking away.

        “If you’re sure,” he said. Joan arched her eyebrow at him before it dawned on her that that was also where she’d recovered Randall Clark’s rifle—and where Joshua had broken her finger the first time. She reflexively tucked the digit into her palm. It still thrummed and ached when the weather was bad. She was silent as they continued, stiffly awkward beside each other as they wandered without aim or direction for a little while.

        “I still want to,” she said after a lengthy silence. “I love it there.”

        Without further word, Joshua altered their course, and within an hour the two were facing the enormous stone arch. Joan looked up at it, feeling the same kind of curious reverence she had felt the first time she had been here with Joshua, almost a year ago. She was determined to hold on to that feeling, and to let the past several months be water under the bridge, as Joshua had done. She began to trot forward when Joshua gently took her hand, his long fingers curling around her own and obscuring the web of scarring that covered the inside of her finger. She slowed, and the two walked through the arch together, approaching the summit that overlooked the Eastern Virgin. They stood side by side as they looked out over the river.

        “This is a special place, isn’t it,” Joshua remarked after a moment of silence. He continued to hold her hand, mindlessly stroking his thumb against her forefinger. “Though it was rather different the last time we were here…”

        Joan didn’t say anything; she looked down at the ledge where barely eight months ago she had desperately tried to scale down the side of it, to escape Joshua. It seemed as distant as a bad dream now.

        “I wouldn’t change any of it,” Joan said after a moment, tilting her chin up and looking back over the river. Nephi had given her the strength to endure and drive herself forward over the past month, but standing here now, beside Joshua Graham, she was surprised to find that she had no regrets. She turned to him.

        “I mean it. I don’t care. I wouldn’t change anything at all to have what I have now,” she said. He gazed back at her, his blue eyes bright in the afternoon sunlight.

        “You really do want to stay then?” he said. “I know I asked you before, but… I wasn’t sure if the difficulties of motherhood would change your mind. You’re certain?”

        “I would endure it all a thousand times over again, if it brought me right back to where I am now,” she replied breathlessly. Joshua took a step forward, closing the small distance between them, and Joan took a shaky inhale as he backed her up towards the tall rocks that stood over the final resting place of Randall Clark. Joshua did not stop until her spine was flush with the surface of the stone, and her face was brilliantly red.

        “Then take my last name,” he said, his voice thick as he placed his palms against the wall on either side of her head. Joan’s heartbeat began to race in her chest.

        “I’ve never had a last name.”

        It had never even occurred to her before now that she was missing one.

        “I know,” Joshua replied. “If you’re going to stay here, by my side… then it should be mine.” He paused for a few seconds, mentally calculating.

        “… If you want it, that is,” he said after a moment, his tone slightly begrudging. Joan gave him a small smile before wrapping her arms around his waist, tugging him closer to her.

        “Thank you… I would love that,” she said. _Joan Graham,_ she thought; a girlish thrill fluttered in her chest at the idea of it, and she thought it was fitting that they would have the same initials.

        She gasped—he had ground his hips into hers, towering over her and leaning his forehead against the cool rocks with a groan. There was no mistaking the hardness in his jeans, and Joan flushed a deeper shade of ruby.

        They had not lain together since the day he had baptized her, though they had come very close the day of the Legion attack; seized with determination and boldness, she pulled her hands forward along his sides, until her fingertips met his belt buckle, which she began to tug at.

        Joshua stiffened and looked down at her, his eyebrows arched high on his forehead; Joan faltered before biting her lip. _I won’t let you lead me all of the time_ , she thought with resolve as she unbuckled Joshua’s belt. He stood almost awkwardly as she unbuttoned his jeans and tugged them down around his hips. His erection strained against the fabric of his garments, which were threadbare enough that she could see the dark flush of his cock through them.

        She took a steady breath and made a decision; pulling away from the wall, she twisted, pressing her hands flat against Joshua’s stomach. He let her gently push him against the tall rock, the expression on his face still rife with uncertainty as he finally pushed back against her shoulders with his palms.

        “What do you think you’re doing—”

        “I _want_ to do this,” she said, glancing up and meeting his eyes. He looked surprised at the commanding tone of her voice, but let his hands fall slack at his side, watching her. Joan took another breath before freeing Joshua’s cock, which immediately twitched in the cool valley air. She fell to her knees and Joshua’s eyebrows arched further.

        “This isn’t something that a proper wo—”

        The rest of the sentence was drowned out with the jagged wheeze that escaped his lips as Joan tentatively took his cock between her lips, stretching her mouth open wide. She had never done this before, but she had heard many times in Vegas that this was something that men enjoyed, and that they complained if their wives didn’t do. She was still flushing brilliantly red, but was determined to do the best job that she could; she pushed forward until her nose met the scarred flesh of his navel, and water leaked from the corners of her eyes as she knotted her hands into fists to try to suppress the sudden bout of gagging that wanted to overtake her. Her mouth felt impossibly full—after a moment she was forced to draw backward, until only his tip remained inside. Joshua’s thighs trembled beneath her palms; she pushed forward again, before falling into a slow bobbing rhythm with her head.

        Joshua’s hands had tangled into her hair, his bandages starkly white against the dark strands, and he groaned as she worked.

        “ _Teeth_ … the teeth,” he said, his voice coming out raggedly.

        Joan withdrew backward and, with a minute pop, released him from her mouth. She immediately swiped the back of her hand across her lips, which had grown tingly.

        “I’m sorry,” she said nervously. Her eyes jerked open wide as Joshua clenched his fist in her hair, thrusting her face forward at him again.

        “No, no,” he gasped. “You were doing fine. Just be mindful of your teeth, don’t stop.”

        Joan took him inside again, and was careful to keep her mouth open as wide as she could withstand; the corners of her lips began to burn, but she ignored it, savoring the thick moans that tumbled out of Joshua’s mouth and the way the muscles in his thighs jerked and steeled beneath her hands.

        After a time he pushed her head away from him; with another pop, much louder and wetter this time, she released him.

        “ _Jesus_ ,” he gasped; Joan couldn’t prevent the small wicked grin that crossed her face. It quickly vanished when Joshua seized her upper arm, hauling her to her feet—she was on the threshold of asking him if she’d done something wrong when he slammed her against the wall he had been leaning against, and she cried out as her head bounced off the warm rock.

        “I need more,” Joshua growled. Without warning he leaned down, sliding his hands up the backs of her thighs before jerking down her garment shorts and hoisting her up so that she was at face level with him; Joan gasped, staring into his bright blue eyes as he shoved her dress out of the way and pressed the head of his cock against her.

        “Do you even know how much I’ve wanted this for the past two months,” he gasped, shoving himself into her. Joan threw her arms around him and shrieked from the pain that stabbed deep into her navel and lower back; Joshua immediately withdrew and began to thrust into her more mindfully, his fingertips burying themselves into the curve of her ass as he took her against the wall.

        “Not just this,” he continued, his voice uneven and punctured with barely stifled groans. “I’ve wanted so much more. All you ever had to do was say that you would be mine, to say it and _mean_ _it_. Ever since I learned that you were carrying my child, it’s all I’ve wanted—can you even comprehend that?”

        The harsh wall of rock was digging into Joan’s shoulder blades as he thrust against her, and she was staring at him with wide eyes, her face crimson.

        “Can you?” he demanded sharply. Joan tightened her grip around his shoulders.

        “Y-yes,” she gasped. “All I wanted was to be by your side, I told you even before everything happened—”

        She let out a shrill gasp as Joshua penetrated her deeply, driving her into the rocks. He buried his face into the crook of her neck as he continued, and she held on to him as tightly as she could, bouncing and crying out with each stroke.

        “I want our family,” he grunted into her throat. “I want you to give me more children, as many as you can. I want you to serve me, and I want to protect you—I would do anything for both of you—and I _will_.”

        He paused to gasp before drawing back just enough so that he could look her in the face again. His eyes were bright and wild, and she clawed against the textured fabric of his SLCPD vest, simultaneously frightened and moved.

        “I’ll fight the 80s,” he continued, his voice hoarse and guttural. “I’ll destroy anyone that threatens my family, my tribe. I want to restore New Canaan—I won’t let this spiritual tradition die with me, or even with Nephi. We’ll expand, we’ll take in more tribes, I’ll convert them all, and I’ll give everything that I had when I was growing up to you and Nephi. I want everything, and I want to give it all to both of you, to everyone.”

        Joan buried her face into Joshua’s shoulder, letting out a small sob.

        “That’s all I ever wanted,” she cried, laughing and grinning against him. She locked her ankles around him then and arched her back—within moments she was gasping in his arms, shivering as orgasm overtook her, flushing from head to toe. Joshua removed one hand from her ass to brace against the rocks, and within just another few moments he had come as well, burying his cock as deep inside her as he could as he released himself.

        As soon as Joshua was finished, he slumped forward, leaning his forehead against the wall behind her again as he began to slowly soften inside of her. Joan kept her ankles locked tight around his hips, determined to keep as much of him inside for as long as she could.

        “I love you,” he breathed. Joan’s eyes snapped open, immediately glossy with tears. She clung to him even tighter, pressing her face into the bandages around his throat.

        “I love you too.”

***

        A while later they cleaned themselves up, and Joan tugged her garment bottoms back around her waist, grateful that she could bend over with ease again. Her legs were still tingly and wobbly as they made their way back out of the Red Gate.

        “Let’s go home,” Joshua said, taking her by the hand. Joan nodded and matched his pace as they made their way back to the Dead Horse’s camp, the sun just beginning to descend in the bright afternoon sky.

        When they arrived in the camp—as usual, Joshua took a moment to pause and wring out the legs of his jeans—Joan immediately sought out Waking Cloud. It didn’t take long to find her; she was sitting by the fire, bouncing Nephi on her knee and smiling and laughing as she played with him. As soon as she noticed Joan she waved, and Joan quickly approached her, Joshua hot on her heels.

        “It looks like that walk did you well—you both look much happier,” Waking Cloud said, handing Nephi to Joshua, who had stooped to accept him. Joan smiled at Waking Cloud.

        “That was a good idea. Thank you for watching him—I hope there weren’t any problems?” she asked. Waking Cloud shook her head.

        “Not at all. He is too small to cause any real troubles… _yet_ , anyway,” she said slyly. “He mostly slept.”

        “Figures,” Joan said with a dry smile as she peered over Joshua’s arm, letting her scarred forefinger trail across Nephi’s tiny chin. “You’re going to be up all night then, aren’t you?”

        As she stood by Joshua’s shoulder, Nephi looked up at her, with much more determined focus than he usually did. He seemed to consider Joan for a moment, and after a few seconds his mouth stretched in a small and very deliberate grin. Joan gazed back at him with her eyes wide, an enormous grin of her own spreading across her face.

        “He smiled at me!” she said, bending toward him. He had grinned before, but it was never in regard to anything in particular—Waking Cloud had warned Joan that for a little while he would just pull faces, and that they didn’t really mean anything. But there was too much purpose behind his expression for it to be mere reflex; the smile on Nephi’s face lingered, mirroring her own. After a minute or so, he twisted his small face toward his father, and the smile persisted, as bright as the sun. Joshua cradled him close to his chest.

        “You were worth it,” he said. “Everything that I have ever done in this life has been worth it, just to have you. I would do it all over again, if it meant I could stand here today.”

        As he finished, he pulled his eyes away from Nephi, meeting Joan’s. She pressed close against him, and together they took a seat by the fire, with Nephi bridged between them.


	27. I Want It All

Chapter 27: I Want It All

_It ain't much I'm asking, if you want the truth; here's to the future for the dreams of youth_

Seven Years Later - 2290

        “When will Dad come back?”

        Nephi Graham was sprawled on his stomach in the Angel Cave, cutting lazy arcs in the air with his bare feet. By his side was his sister Sariah, who was busy concentrating on a doll, swiping it back and forth across the floor of the cave in something that approximated dancing.

        “Soon, I hope,” Joan replied, juggling her youngest daughter, Jerusha, on her hip as she stirred the enormous metal pot of stew that dominated the center of the cavern. Around her, the women of the Sorrows and the other tribes were hard at work preparing dinner. To this day Joan’s cooking skills were still nothing to write home about, so she mostly stayed out of the way of the much more experienced women, devoting most of her time to the three children Joshua Graham had given her. Still, in Joshua’s absence she worked to stay occupied, lest she drive herself insane fretting for him.

        “When is soon?” Nephi asked. Joan cast him a small look out of the corner of her eye. By far he was the most inquisitive of the three, and that wasn’t the only way that he had taken after her: even at the tender age of seven there was no mistaking the lean sharpness of his nose and jaw, and his head was crowned with hair as pitch black as her own. His eyes were certainly his most outstanding feature though—they were the same pale blue as Joshua’s, subtly sharp and observant despite their almost sleepy looking tilt.

        “I don’t know,” Joan said. The ache in her elbow was particularly deep today, and after a moment she deposited Jerusha onto the floor beside her sister. Despite being only two, she certainly seemed to be taking after Joshua; she was much more sturdily built than her waifish siblings, and it was becoming more laborious than Joan could easily manage to carry her.

        As soon as her hands were free, Joan pressed her forehead into them.

        Joshua had been gone for several weeks now. The 80s that had once plagued them had long been incorporated into their tribe, but he had sought others, venturing further and further outside the lands surrounding Zion. Under his guidance, their numbers had swollen exponentially as Joshua gathered and assimilated tribes from not just Utah, but areas in the bordering states of old Wyoming and Colorado as well.

        “I wish I knew,” Joan murmured after a tense moment. As she finally pulled her face away from her hands, she saw the expression of stark worry on Nephi’s face; Sariah took a single look at him before bursting into tears, and Joan squeezed her eyes shut. _Please come back soon_ , she thought, kneeling and gathering Sariah into her arms to comfort her. _I can’t do this alone_.

        “Don’t worry, Daddy will be back in no time,” Joan said, keeping careful control of her voice to sound strong. A single look at Nephi told her that he wasn’t buying it.

        “Why don’t you pray for his safety?” Joan offered instead, pulling away from Sariah, who had finally begun to calm down. “That’s better than just sitting, isn’t it?”

        “It’s better to take action,” Nephi parroted, and Joan gave his hair a gentle pat, smiling warmly at him.

        “Exactly right,” she replied. She was just bowing her head to lead them in a small prayer when commotion outside caught her ears—Joan jerked her head up, as did most of the other women in the cave.

        “Waking Cloud!” One of the scouts dashed into the Angel Cave, and Waking Cloud immediately faced him, her expression morphing from alarm to coolly professional focus.

        “What is it?” she asked, abandoning the vegetables she had been dicing to meet him in the cave’s entrance.

        “Come quick,” the scout continued breathlessly. “Some of the men have been injured—Joshua has been injured!”

        It was as if the wind had been punched out of Joan’s chest; the color fled from her face and she immediately stood, the room seeming to swim in her vision. Around her the Sorrows immediately stampeded out of the cave, to see the freshly returned men.

        “Nephi,” she said, whipping around and looking at her children. Nephi had also leapt to his feet, standing like a small soldier, ready for duty.

        “Watch your sisters,” Joan commanded; he gave her a single obedient nod, and that was all that Joan needed before she charged away, the short heels of her shoes slapping against the stone floor before sinking into the sands outside. It was dull and overcast in the valley today, and Joan’s heart squeezed with anxious alarm.

        Outside, the men were slowly making their way up the Eastern Virgin; most of them seemed to be alright, but a number were leaning against their brothers, nursing various injuries. Waking Cloud was already among them—as well as the two young protégés she had taken a few years ago—and was helping one of the more grievously injured men, whose leg was coated with dried blood and bent at an unnatural angle.

        “Where is Joshua?” Joan demanded, swinging her attention to the person nearest to her; it was a young man from a small and unremarkable tribe in northern Utah, among the first that Joshua had seized several years ago. He immediately shrank beneath her steely gaze, despite standing more than a foot taller than her.

        “He should be coming up the river, with some of the others,” he said in stiff English; when they had begun to rapidly expand, Joshua had made a point of teaching the new tribals the “Language of the Holy Book”, as they called it. Some had more difficulty than others in adjusting, but most deferred to Joshua and obeyed his wish that they all share at least one common language, even if they preferred to speak in their native tongues otherwise.

        Joan twisted from him and immediately sloshed into the water, not caring that her skirt was soaking through nearly up to her hips. She passed tribal after tribal before finally spying Joshua—she dashed toward him, leaving a spray of water in her wake.

        Joshua Graham was leaning against a much younger man—one of the original Dead Horse warriors—and appeared to be thoroughly irritated. His SLCPD vest hung open over his woven undershirt, which was untucked, leaving him much more disheveled looking than usual. The bandages that covered nearly every exposed inch of his body also seemed to be dingier, ragged and dirty around the edges.

        “It’s just a pulled muscle,” he snapped. “You’re making too much of a fuss over this.”

        He looked up then and caught Joan’s eyes—without warning he pushed the Dead Horse warrior away from him before making his way toward her. Joan immediately dashed into his arms, which he folded around her shoulders, pulling her close.

        “I can see someone’s already told you what happened,” he grumbled against her hair. She buried her face into his warm chest, breathing him in.

        “They told me you were hurt,” Joan said, pulling away and looking him up and down. To her immense relief, Joshua seemed no worse for wear, at least until he grimaced, jerking his bandaged hand to his shoulder and clutching it.

        “What happened?” Joan asked.

        “I want to see the children first,” he replied. Together they made their way back up the stream, and into the camp. Joshua did not pause to wring out his jeans—instead he proceeded directly into the Angel Cave, where Nephi, Sariah, and Jerusha were waiting.

        The three did not hesitate—as soon as they saw Joshua they immediately launched themselves at him, and he caught them, kneeling to wrap his bandaged arms around the three of them.

        “Go easy,” Joan gently reprimanded them; Sariah was crawling halfway up Joshua’s shoulder, causing him to wince again as Jerusha attempted to dangle herself from his wrist. Nephi was the first to obediently spring backward, giving him space.

        “I missed you, Daddy,” he said, and Joan immediately looked away, blinking rapidly; Nephi had begun to prefer to call Joshua ‘Dad’ instead, and to hear him revert to boyishly calling him Daddy for the first time in many months made her heart feel as though it was going to wrench itself in two.

        “I’ve missed you too, son,” Joshua replied. He leaned forward and pulled Nephi back into his arms, and Nephi held on to him, pinching his small face with determination to not cry like his little sisters were.

        “I missed all of you so much,” Joshua said, gently prying Sariah off of his shoulder and into his arms again. “I prayed for all of you every single day. Have you been good to your mother?”

        “We’ve been good!” Nephi immediately answered. “We prayed for you every day too. Are you okay? Can we do anything for you?”

        Joshua looked at his son, and Joan could see the unmasked glow of pride in his eyes. They had raised the children with their faith, and Nephi had taken to it like a bird to the skies. He was always the first to try to lend a hand or help someone out, and Joan never had to remind him to say his prayers before meals or bedtime.

        “Why don’t you play with your sisters for a while, so that I can speak to your mother,” Joshua said. Sariah and Jerusha both immediately looked put-out.

        “Don’t want to!” Jerusha growled. Unlike Nephi, she was already stiff-necked and indignant, although Joan hoped that would pass within a few years; Sariah had been much the same way at her age.

        “We want to stay with you,” Sariah whined. Joan gave her a wry smile. Not much had changed apparently.

        Joshua’s eyes immediately sharpened; on cue, all three children stepped backward. Without any further word, Nephi grabbed one of his sister’s tiny hands in each of his own before leading them out of the cave and into the camp. Joshua immediately slumped forward on his knees, and Joan rushed to his side again, slipping one of his arms over her shoulder.

        “You _are_ hurt,” she said, fear knotting in her stomach once more. Joshua allowed her to help him up, and with her support, they made their way to his chamber of the Angel Cave. She gently guided him to his old cinderblock seat, and he sat down heavily, seizing his shoulder and squeezing his eyes shut with pain.

        “What is it?” she asked shrilly. He beckoned her to take her seat opposite him, and she obeyed, smoothing out her damp skirt before restlessly perching on the edge of the cinderblock.

        “It really isn’t terrible,” Joshua said, massaging his shoulder. “The girls accidentally put a little too much pressure on it; it wasn’t this bad a few minutes ago. More than anything, I’m just tired.”

        “So what happened? Waking Cloud is looking after some of the other men, but I can go get her—”

        “No,” Joshua cut her off. “There are men that need assistance far more than I do right now. It’s just a strained muscle. She can have a look at me after she’s taken care of the others.”

        “Is there anything _I_ can do?” Joan asked, studying him. Joshua shook his head.

        “I believe it will just need to work itself out. I’m sorry to have alarmed you. I really will be alright,” he replied. “We ran into resistance with the tribe I was trying to convert, up in Idaho. They weren’t going to come peacefully, so we wound up having to stone them all. I pulled the muscle in my shoulder while we were working, and the journey back didn’t help.”

        “Damn, what a shame,” Joan replied. “None of them were willing to listen to you?”

        “Unfortunately not,” Joshua said. “They were wary of us at first. They must have heard of me; though I could understand little of their language, I could make out that they were calling me the _Burned Man_.”

        Joshua trailed off, his expression souring; Joan knew that he didn’t enjoy the moniker he’d been given. The irritation bled away from his face after a minute and he sighed before continuing.

        “They were receptive to the Holy Word at first, but when I told them that they would be coming south with us… they resisted. Fortunately there weren’t many women and children.”

        Joan nodded, reaching out and rubbing his hand.

        “You did what you had to.”

        “I know.”

        For a while they sat, and Joshua grew steadily more pensive; the knotted fear in Joan’s stomach, which had begun to unfurl itself, was rapidly tightening back up again.

        “This has called attention to a problem though,” Joshua said after a long while. Joan’s fingers immediately chilled as Joshua looked up at her, his pale eyes tired.

        “I won’t live forever,” he said. The color immediately drained out of Joan’s face, taking any semblance of warmth in her hands and fingers with it.

        “Don’t say that—”

        “I have to be blunt,” Joshua cut her off. “I’m not getting any younger. My only regret is starting a family so late in life. I’m already in my sixties.”

        He trailed off, looking hotly bitter for a moment.

        “Every day I can feel my body further betraying me,” he continued. “The pain in my joints when I wake up each morning, the soreness that lingers for days after every battle… I should never have survived all that I have. It’s a miracle that I’m alive, and I thank God for that every single day. I don’t wish to push the tremendous blessings that He has bestowed upon me though—and I don’t want to fight forever. I don’t want _this_ , forever.”

        He paused to gesture around the cave. In his absence, dust had begun to settle on the shelves surrounding them, despite Joan’s best efforts to combat it.

        “I don’t want to sacrifice any more of my precious time on this earth,” Joshua said, his voice distant and melancholy. “I want to be with our children. I want to give them the safe and stable upbringing that I was blessed to have. I don’t want to raise my family in a cave and war camp; I want them to return to a _home_ each night, and to lay their heads down in proper bedding. I want to be there for Nephi, Sariah, and Jerusha as they grow older. I want to be with you.”

        Joan buried her face into her hand, the jagged lump that had formed in her throat grinding uncomfortably as she swallowed. Joshua reached out and stroked her hair.

        “All I’m saying is that I think I should begin to settle down. We’ve grown so large in number… almost too large, to remain sustainably within Zion,” Joshua finished, sounding worried all over again.

        At this revelation, Joan’s eye’s snapped open behind her hand, and she withdrew it, looking up at Joshua.

        “We won’t be able to stay in Zion?” she asked, her voice high and thin. Joshua looked more tired than ever.

        “I confess that it’s been a concern in the back of my mind for a few years now,” he said softly. “I love it here… this is the home of my heart. But even though the new tribes have spread out across the valley, I worry that we’ve overcrowded it. All it would take is one or two particularly rough winters, or a spring where the bighorners fail to produce enough… I have no problem with relying on the caravans, but we won’t be able to sustain ourselves if we have nothing to trade with them.”

        Joan placed her head back in her hands, the bridge of her glasses pinching against her nose as she squeezed her eyes shut, her mind racing. She loved Zion, almost as much as Joshua did, but he was making a point that she couldn’t refute, as awful as it was to acknowledge.

        “I also believe it would be best to preserve the valley for the temple to God that it is,” Joshua continued after a moment, speaking solemnly. “But New Canaan was razed to the ground, and the earth was salted there… I don’t know what to do.”

        He trailed off and mirrored Joan, placing his forehead in his hands and massaging his temples.

        “I hate not knowing what to do… not knowing what the future holds,” he went on, his voice thick with aggravation. “All of you are looking to me to lead you… and I don’t have a single damned idea of what to do.”

        Joan pulled her head out of her hands to look up at Joshua, her eyes wide as an idea struck her.

        “What if we went somewhere else,” she offered, her voice distant to her own ears. Joshua looked up at her, his brows tilted at the strange cadence of her voice.

        Deep within her mind, Joan heard for the first time in many years the beckoning call of ambition and purpose; if Joshua could not lead them, then _she_ would.

        Joan leapt to her feet, brimming with almost frantic energy as she paced around the Angel Cave. Joshua watched her, curiosity burning in his eyes.

        “What?” he prompted her after a moment. She finally spun around to face him, her eyes bright in the dim gloom of the cave.

        “The Mojave,” Joan said. “New Vegas. We could live there. Robert House prevented the bombs from falling there, so it’s almost entirely free of radiation. There’s already housing, and plenty of land to build more… we would even have access to the Hoover Dam. I’m certain it’s still functioning. It’s safe, and it’s not even too far away from Zion.”

        Joshua studied her for a long moment before his eyes grew as bright as hers.

        “True… There’s also one of the final remaining legacies of our people there,” he replied, cautious optimism blooming in his voice. “The Old Mormon Fort.”

        He continued to sit and watch Joan as she paced back and forth, gesticulating with her hands as she spoke rapidly.

        “It would be too easy,” Joan said, her voice rising with dark excitement. “We would barely have to risk anything to take it. I was their leader before I came here—I took control of all of House’s resources, as well as his army of robots, his Securitrons.”

        She paused then, letting a grin spread across her face.

        “I still have Yes Man. I’ve been gone for years now… but I’m certain there’s no one there that’s proficient enough with computers to have reprogrammed him. He did whatever I told him—he’s literally incapable of obeying anyone else. All I have to do is tell him to deactivate the Securitrons, and nothing will be able to stop us.”

        At this news Joshua gave a dry chuckle, leaning his chin in his palm, his eyes catching harsh red pinpricks of light from the oil lamp that still stood on his table.

        “To think that after all these years… I would finally manage to succeed in what Edward failed at,” he mused softly. Joan laughed in response before Joshua continued.

        “But how will you do it? How will you access this… robot, or whatever? If I can avoid fighting, I would prefer to—although if it comes to it, I’m not afraid to do what’s necessary.”

        Joan considered this for a moment. She supposed she could just walk into the New Vegas Strip—people would be shocked to see her after all these years, but there was nothing preventing her from just waltzing right back into the Lucky 38 and doing as she pleased. Still, the idea didn’t sit well with her; the residents of New Vegas would surely know something was wrong when all the Securitrons fell to the ground, defunct. There was no way she’d be able to fight her way back out of the Lucky 38, especially not alone.

        Joan paused before snapping her fingers.

        “Of course,” she said. “My old Pipboy… If we can recover it, and it still works, we can get close enough to Vegas that I can contact Yes Man with it remotely. We should still prepare for a battle though—the people of Vegas aren’t stupid. As soon as the Securitrons go offline, they’ll know that something is wrong… and if I know my old people, they won’t be afraid to fight for their city. I might be able to talk them down, though.”

        Joshua’s eyes steeled as he looked at her.

        “You can’t come with us—war isn’t any place for you. You can come along far enough to shut down those robots, but I can’t risk anything happening to you. I’m not going to leave my children motherless.”

        Joan swiveled toward Joshua, matching the intensity of his gaze.

        “I have to. Do you really think the people of New Vegas are going to listen to the _Burned Man_?” she demanded scathingly. Joshua narrowed his eyes at her.

        “Besides,” she continued. “That was _my_ city. You don’t know it a tenth as well as I do—you’ve never even been there. And Yes Man will only respond to me—without me, this entire plan falls apart. I don’t doubt that with enough time and energy we could destroy the Securitrons, but I know we would take losses. If we do things my way, we might not have to sacrifice a single life, on either side.”

        Joshua continued to glare at her for a moment longer before he finally relaxed, pulling himself to his feet and crossing the room to join her.

        “… Alright, you’ve made your point. If it goes as well as you say it will, then I won’t have to worry about you too much,” he said, pulling her into his arms. His SLCPD vest was still draped open, and Joan rested her head between the dark panels of it, burying her face into his woven shirt as she wrapped her arms around him.

        “Give me some credit,” she said, her voice slightly muffled. “I was doing this before we even met, remember?”


	28. Level

Chapter 28: Level

_Oh, no, here we go again; don't act like you couldn't give a good goddamn_

        Joan blearily cracked her eyes open.

        The sky above her was still dark, without even the faintest hint of dawn’s bold colors to paint the horizon. She yawned before sitting up in her sleeping bag, rubbing the small of her back as she reached out across the sand to dust it with her fingertips until she found her glasses. Something bulky on her wrist smacked against her side as she withdrew her hand away from her back.

        “Ugh, this damned thing still feels so weird,” she muttered, looking down at her Pipboy; she could scarcely believe she had worn it constantly on her forearm all those years ago.

        Beside her, Joshua Graham was beginning to stir in his own sleeping bag, and beyond him were the men—several hundred, at Joshua’s last count. As if they were following her lead, they all began to rouse, sitting up and stretching from the furs and sleeping bags that they had cocooned themselves in during the cold desert night.

        Their army was positioned a few miles outside of New Vegas, tucked away into the mountains so as not to draw too much attention to themselves. They had departed from Zion a couple weeks ago, traveling as stealthily across the Nevada border as they could, which had meant a slow journey. Joan hadn’t seen her children since their tearful farewell, full of promises to return as quickly as possible, and not to worry about what she and Joshua were doing. The only information they had given their children was that they should look forward to settling in a new place soon.

        Joan sighed, looking up at the sky again as Joshua fully sat up beside her, his shoulder giving a loud crack as he rubbed at his eyes.

        “I miss them too,” he said quietly. Joan reached out for him and he took her hand, idly stroking the scar that lined her forefinger with his thumb. “Don’t worry. If everything goes as well as you say it will, we’ll be returning for them soon.”

        As they had drawn closer to the Mojave Desert, Joan’s stomach had begun to twist with worry. She had faith in her plan, but as the time to execute it drew closer she began to fill with dread and doubt. What if Yes Man no longer recognized her as the leader of New Vegas? What if they were forced into an engagement with the Securitrons? What if something happened to Joshua? It had only been a couple months since his return from the failed excursion to Idaho, and while his shoulder had healed well, she could see that he was beginning to show signs of fatigue and wear: he tended to sleep a little later than usual, and she could hear the unmistakable rattle and crack of his bones as he sat up, looking a little more depleted with each passing day.

        She steeled herself, pushing her glasses further up the bridge of her nose as she stood from her sleeping bag. Joshua was still a fit and healthy man; the only reason she could fathom that he was showing such intense signs of aging was because of the stress and uncertainty of their future. She was determined to return everything he had given her over the last seven years—she was just as capable of providing for them as he was, and she was proud to give it all back to their family, their tribe. For Nephi, Sariah, and Jerusha; for Joshua, there was nothing she would not do.

        Joshua stood up as well, and they began to dress. Joan pulled on the white button down that she had taken to wearing shortly after she had given birth to Nephi—breastfeeding had been much less of a chore when she didn’t have to fully undress for it—leaving the top few buttons loosely undone for comfort. She took a moment to roll the sleeves up to her elbows, already savoring the coolness of the desert air on her forearms. Next she tugged up her skirt; like the maternity dress that preceded it, it fell to her mid-calf, and like most of the clothing she had always preferred to wear, it was black. Typically she wore an apron over her clothes when she was busy tending to the children or cooking, but there was no need for it on their journey, so it had been left back in Zion.

        Joan smoothed her shirt down over her belly—which had thankfully returned to its former flatness—and took a moment to admire herself. She was a wife and mother now, and she thought it was only appropriate that she look the part. To complete herself however, she was missing one thing: she knelt and snatched up the black desperado hat that Joshua had replaced for her before sweeping it onto her head with satisfaction.

        Beside her, Joshua was cinching his belt around his hips before buckling it tight. As soon as he finished, he turned to her.

        “Are you ready?”

        “Absolutely.”

***

        The warriors devoted a few hours to climbing down out of the mountains, and as soon as they were on flat land again, Joan began to feel a small thrill; at a distance she could finally spy the lights of the city of New Vegas. Standing taller than any building within many hundreds of miles was the Lucky 38—it was still dark enough outside that it was shining boldly against the black sky.

        For the first time in many years, she was reminded of the first day of her new life, and her breath caught in her throat; on that morning so long ago, Doc Mitchell had run a few psychological tests on her, and she remembered seeing a shape almost exactly like the one she was looking at now.

        “ _A light in the darkness_ ,” she murmured, gooseflesh pebbling her arms. Joshua tilted his head, looking down at her.

        “What did you just say?” he asked.

        Joan swiveled her head to look at him, her eyes wide and distant.

        “Nothing,” she said absently, turning and looking back at the tall building in front of her.

        She had always attributed surviving the gun shot Benny had delivered to her skull to luck, the sacred Lady Fortune of the New Vegas Strip; she had long ago decided that that had been incorrect, and that God had taken a specific interest in her, leading her and guiding her down the path she had chosen. A small smile spread across her face. How inspired she had been on that morning, sitting dazed and disoriented in Doc Mitchell’s house as she’d looked at that strange inky painting. _A light in the darkness_. Divinely inspired, and she’d never even realized it.

        “I pray today goes well,” she said. Joshua nodded beside her before pulling his pistol off of his hip and giving it a quick check.

        Joan followed suit, mirroring his actions—on her hip was the pistol that Joshua had gifted her many years ago, the one that she had used to defend herself against Vulpes Inculta. Joshua had presented it to her not long after Nephi’s birth, and her breath had been taken away: nearly identical to his own gun, it was a commander style .45 auto pistol, the grips inlaid with snakeskin, just as his were. On one side of the barrel was one half of an engraved inscription: _When you pass through the waters, I will be with you_ ; on the other side was the rest: _When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned._

        She had trained with Joshua since then and, despite her previous assumptions about pistols, had grown more than proficient with it. Still, she’d rarely fought anything more dangerous than geckos with it; for that reason, the rifle she had recovered from Randall Clark’s remains was strapped to her back as well.

        “This is it,” Joan said as the mass of people began to approach the Strip. “I should radio Yes Man and tell him that I’m here to talk… There’s no way the people on the Strip or West Vegas won’t notice us approaching now.”

        Joshua paused, the men falling still behind them.

        “Go ahead,” he replied solemnly.

        Joan looked down at her Pipboy, giving the screen a quick rub to dust it off again. She could barely believe that she and Joshua were able to recover it from where he’d thrown it away from her all those years ago, let alone that it actually still worked. She supposed she had to give Robert House some credit—his technology had been built to last.

        Pulling up the radio tab—this part came back to her more familiarly, and for a second it was as though she’d never been parted from her Pipboy—Joan took a steady breath.

        She’d had no contact at all with anyone from the Mojave for more than eight years now. She had never even told them exactly where she was going, for fear that they would discover who exactly was waiting on her in Zion; she had known that they would never understand. She had known that they would only ever see the Malpais Legate, and not the man who had fundamentally changed her life.

        She closed her eyes and steeled herself before finally opening them, burning with resolve.

_Nephi, Sariah, Jerusha._

_Joshua._

        She twisted the dial and the radio crackled, waiting for her with a faintly audible buzz. Joan cleared her throat.

        “Yes Man, are you there?” she asked softly. Joshua and many of the nearest tribals stood by and watched her as she stared at her Pipboy, her breath held in her throat.

        The radio emitted a hiss and then a staticky series of cracks before sparking to life.

        “… _Ma’am_?”

        The voice that responded was hollow and shocked, and Joan couldn’t stop the broad smile that flashed across her face.

        “God, Yes Man…” she said, her chest aching for a moment. “I haven’t heard your voice in so long.”

        “Ma’am!” Yes Man replied, bursting with shock. “Is that really you? I have your voice saved on file but… Ma’am, it’s been more than eight years; it’s been eight years, seven months, four days, seventeen hours, and twenty-two seconds exactly!”

        Joan bowed her head, staring at the screen of her Pipboy.

        “I know. It’s me… Joan.”

        “Where have you been?” Yes Man asked shrilly. “Are you safe? Were you kidnapped by Legionaries? Give me your coordinates, I can come retrieve you, I can send the entire army out—”

        “Yes Man,” Joan cut him off, her voice hardening. “We need to talk. And we can’t do that unless you deactivate the Securitrons. _All_ of them.”

        A long pause hung in the air at her words, and Joan narrowed her eyes at her Pipboy.

        “… Ma’am,” Yes Man finally responded slowly. “Did you remember to reset the clock on your Pipboy?”

        Joan couldn’t help but smile at her Pipboy again; she’d nearly forgotten the precautions she’d taken with Yes Man long ago: they had devised a code sentence that he would ask her if he suspected she was being forced into giving him orders under duress.

        “No,” she replied after a moment. “I’m not being held against my wishes, Yes Man. I need you to take the Securitrons offline. Every last one of them.”

        There was another dense pause.

        “… If you insist, Ma’am,” Yes Man replied, wary and uncertain.

        “I do insist. I’ve come to Vegas to talk… and I’m not alone. I need you to take them offline quietly, so as not to disturb anyone in either the Strip or Freeside. I’m just outside the city.”

        Joan paused, biting her lip and worrying it between her teeth. A moment later Yes Man buzzed back to life on her Pipboy, sounding deeply unhappy.

        “I’ve done as you ordered, Ma’am,” he said. “I don’t think it’s a _good_ order, but—”

        “Is… is anyone there?” Joan cut him off, speaking slowly.

        “Here, in the Lucky 38?”

        “Yes.”

        There was another pause, though it was much briefer this time.

        “Yes, Ma’am. Boone, Arcade, and Cass are here. They don’t know that we’re speaking, but they’re here.”

        “So Veronica never did come back,” Joan said softly, more to herself than to Yes Man.

        “No, Ma’am. Lily and Raul both left a few years ago as well. Arcade usually stays at the Old Mormon Fort, and… for a long time after you left, Boone returned to Novac. But they’re both in the Lucky 38 right now. Cass has always been here. You told her to help me watch New Vegas, so she has been,” Yes Man replied obediently. “She doesn’t like it here very much, but she’s good at it. I guess those years running Cassidy Caravans made her good at directing and overseeing people.”

        Joan stared at her Pipboy, biting down so hard on her bottom lip that it began to sting a little; she felt something brush her hand and she looked down.

        Joshua Graham had silently threaded his fingers through her own, and she glanced up at him, a wan smile crossing her face. He nodded at her.

        “Alright Yes Man. I want to talk to all of them, on the Strip, outside the Lucky 38.”

        “Yes, Ma’am.”

        The radio hissed before fading away into silence then, and Joan lowered her wrist back to her side, staring at the ground as apprehension welled within her. She would be seeing her old friends for the first time in many years… with Joshua Graham by her side.

        Boone would be there.

        She took a steadying breath.

        “I’m by your side,” Joshua softly reminded her. “You’re not doing this alone.”

        “I know,” she replied, setting her jaw as she looked up again. Against the horizon the sun was just starting to rise. “Let’s go.”

        Joan, Joshua, and the rest of the tribals of Zion marched across the sands, closing the distance between themselves and Freeside; it only took a few short hours before they were standing outside the gates. From within, Joan could hear loud murmurs, floating over the enormous metal walls that protected the city. She twisted and looked back at the men behind her.

        “ _Is everyone prepared_?” she asked, speaking stiltedly in Res. The crowd rumbled behind her; Joan looked at Joshua, and he gave her a swift nod.

        “Alright… Let’s do this,” she said.

        The crowd of men behind her obediently stepped backward, staying outside of the city as Joan pushed open the enormous metal gate that secured Freeside, with Joshua following behind her.

        As soon as they entered, Joan took a deep inhale: Freeside smelled exactly the same as she recalled, pungent with cigarette smoke and the stench of booze. She took a long look around. It was cleaner than it had been when she’d last been here, which pleased her; she hadn’t left extensive orders for Yes Man when she’d departed for Zion more than eight years earlier, but she was glad to see that he was more or less carrying out what she would have wanted him to do.

        “The fuck is with all those people outside?”

        Joan twisted her head; a tall young man clad in a leather jacket and jeans had approached Joshua, sizing him up. In his hand was a baseball bat. Joan’s fingers immediately stiffened by her hip.

        “That’s no concern of yours,” Joshua said, looking up at the young man, his pale eyes cold.

        “Excuse me,” Joan snapped, catching the young man’s attention—one of the Kings, she recognized now. She jammed her hand on her hip as she glared at him.

        “I’m the leader of this damn city,” she reprimanded him. “And this man is my _guest_. We’re passing through, so step out of the way.”

        The man stared at her with his eyebrows arched before a small smile flashed across his face and he burst into laughter.

        “Who the fuck are _you_?” he asked, flashing his teeth in a grin as he took her in. “I ain’t never seen a broad as tiny as you in my fuckin’ life, and I’m pretty damn sure I’d remember if she was runnin’ the city of New Vegas!”

        The color drained out of Joan’s face, and she stared at him slack jawed for a moment before her expression darkened thunderously.

        “I am the fucking _Courier_ ,” she spat haughtily. The man cocked his head at her.

        “What, you’re deliverin’ a package? Well shit, lady, don’t let me get in yours and Mummy Man’s way then,” he said derisively, turning his back on Joan and giving her a flippant wave as he slung his bat over his shoulder.

        For a white hot flash Joan couldn’t see clearly, staring at the sizzling crown symbol on the young man’s back as he trotted away from them. She was breathing rapidly, and sweat had begun to dot her brow as she clenched her hands in and out of pale knuckled fists.

        He had no idea who she was.

        She looked around at the other people of Freeside, who were staring at her and Joshua with naked interest. That wasn’t entirely correct, it dawned on her—almost all of them were staring only at Joshua Graham, whispering to each other behind cupped hands, their eyes wary and cautious.

        None of them recognized her.

        For a lightheaded moment Joan felt as though her feet would disappear through the ground if she took another step, and that she’d pitch straight through the earth, into Hell below.

        “ _That almost looks like the Burned Man…_ ” one of the voices in the crowd murmured. Others voices picked up, piercing through Joan’s skull and burrowing into her brain like insects.

        “ _The Burned Man wouldn’t just walk into Vegas, don’t be an idiot_.”

        “ _Who’s that man in the bandages? Did something happen to him_?”

        “ _Are those people outside refugees_?”

        “ _Is that a ghoul_?”

        “ _Look at his hands…”_

        Joshua Graham cleared his throat, seizing Joan’s elbow and marching her forward a few steps until she picked up her feet and began to walk on her own, her eyes unfocused.

        “We should get moving,” he said softly. “I don’t want to draw any more attention to us than I already have. Let’s get this over with.”

        Joan’s expression darkened once more, and she ground her teeth together.

        “Fine.”

        The walk through Freeside passed without further incident; every person that passed by them hesitated, staring at Joshua. No one gave Joan so much as a second glance.

        By the time they reached the great gate separating Freeside from the Strip, Joan had seethed and then regained control of herself; the thought of her friends standing just a handful of feet away from her had brought her back to earth, and apprehension had begun to knot in her stomach again. She paused outside of the gate, and Joshua watched her.

        “These people were like your family once, weren’t they?” he asked. Joan bowed her head, the final shreds of annoyance and hurt bleeding away from her.

        “Yes. I loved them,” she said quietly. “I pray that they’ll listen to me.”

        Joshua put his hand on her shoulder, and it was heavy and warm.

        “The Lord doesn’t always work in ways that we can easily comprehend,” he reminded her. “Be prepared for whatever might happen on the other side of this fence. I pray that we can resolve this peacefully… but stay close to me in case anything goes wrong. We’ll get through this together, one way or another.”

        Joan nodded, steeling herself as she pushed open the gate with a metallic shriek, bypassing the defunct Securitrons that guarded either side of it.


	29. Used to the Darkness

Chapter 29: Used to the Darkness

_And then my eyes got used to the darkness, and everyone that I knew was lost and so long forgotten after you_

        At this time of the morning, the Strip was almost completely devoid of people—a few patrons sluggishly meandered from casino to casino, but nearly everybody had retired to their hotel rooms to collapse after a long night of blowing their caps on the tables and partying with the cheap women that decorated the houses.

        Three people stood out, however: standing on the gently graded stairs of the Lucky 38 were Arcade Gannon, Craig Boone, and Rose of Sharon Cassidy. Standing tall beside them was a single Securitron, with a familiar fixed smile on its face: Yes Man. A hard lump rose in Joan’s throat at the sight of them, and they were staring back at her—the first people to do so since she had entered Freeside.

        “Oh my God,” Cass said before breaking away from the other two and charging up to Joan, stopping just short of her, her jaw slack, as though she was seeing a ghost. Arcade and Boone quickly appeared beside her, with similar expressions on their faces as Yes Man tentatively wheeled closer.

        “ _Joan_?” Arcade gasped.

        “We thought you were fucking dead!” Cass said—without warning she leapt forward, pulling Joan into a fierce hug. Joan stood stiffly in her arms, her hands dangling by her sides.

        “What—I mean, how… Where have…” Arcade had thrust his hands out and was sputtering erratically as Cass finally pulled away from Joan.

        “Who is this?”

        A deeper voice cut through Arcade’s rambling; Joan, Arcade, and Cass each looked up at Boone, who was still standing at a distance from them. He was staring squarely at Joshua Graham.

        Joan faltered before glancing at Joshua, who was returning Boone’s stare, his eyes pale and sharp. Joan hesitated, scrubbing absent-mindedly at her scarred forefinger; she couldn’t tell them who he was, not yet. They would never listen to her if they knew that she was here with the man who had been the Malpais Legate. She needed to speak to them first, to convince them of her point of view.

        “That’s not important,” Joan said stiltedly, and her three friends faced her again, watching her with curiosity. Joan cleared her throat, trying to buy time to clear her mind “I came here to talk.”

        “About what?” Arcade asked, straightening his glasses. “Where have you been? Are you hurt—”

        Joan thrust a hand up and Arcade fell silent; Cass’s eyebrows arched as she stared pointedly at Joan.

        “What the hell,” Cass said, her expression quickly narrowing into a frown. “You show up after almost a goddamn decade of being who knows where—where the fuck have you even been? If you want to talk, then get to it, because now’s a good time to tell us what the hell has been going on.”

        Joan’s own expression hardened, and she placed her hands on her hips. Cass was no different than she’d ever been—she had always been the first to butt heads with Joan, unafraid to bluntly voice her thoughts and opinions. Joan could only pray that they would reconcile as fast as they used to as well.

        “I’ll cut to the chase then,” Joan replied. “I want New Vegas.”

        Cass and Arcade exchanged a fast look; Boone continued to stare at Joshua Graham, who was standing beside Joan in a stance that mirrored her own, his blackened fingers resting loosely over the snakeskin of his belt.

        “You want Vegas?” Cass asked, staring at Joan with her eyes narrowed cautiously. “What do you mean?”

        “It’s already yours,” Arcade cut in. “Yes Man still runs the city, but you’re the only one that can control him. If you’re back for good… you can just go straight up into the Lucky 38. Nothing is stopping you.”

        Joan didn’t like the suspicious looks on Arcade’s and Cass’s faces, her eyes bouncing back and forth between them before she glanced to the side; Joshua was still staring at Boone, which further tightened the knot in her stomach. She closed her eyes, focusing herself for a moment before opening them and looking at Arcade and Cass again.

        “That’s not what I want,” she said, speaking slowly and carefully, as though she was attempting to defuse a bomb.

        “I want the entire city. I have a tribe that looks to me… to _us_ ,” she paused to gesture at Joshua, “And I want to move them in here. This land is _mine_. And I want it for my family. We’ve grown large enough that we can’t stay in our home sustainably. I want to move them here, where it’s safe, there’s plenty of fresh water, it’s free of radiation, and there’s access to traders.

        “There isn’t enough room for both of us, obviously… So I want everyone here to leave. They can have the rest of the Mojave. House left me enough caps that I’d even be glad to pay everyone a fair price to relocate.”

        Arcade and Cass were staring at Joan with their mouths hanging open, their eyes wide; even Boone had finally ripped his gaze away from Joshua and was gaping at her, his eyebrows rising over the rim of his sunglasses. Joan kept her chin tilted high with resolve, maintaining staunch eye contact with them. She had put her offerings on the table—it was up to them to decide what to do with it.

        “You—you _what_?” Arcade squawked.

        “A _family_ —” Cass uttered numbly before Boone cut her off, taking a few heavy footsteps forward and glaring at Joshua again, his broad shoulders as stiff as tightly wound springs.

        “Who is this?” Boone repeated, enunciating each word sharply. Joshua and Boone stood nearly the same height, and Joshua met Boone’s furious gaze with unflinching coolness.

        Joan bit her lip—this wasn’t going at all the way she had hoped it would. She worried at the thin skin between her teeth for a moment before making a snap decision.

        “This is my husband. Joshua Graham,” she announced, faint color blooming in her cheeks to declare herself so boldly.

        If her three friends had looked shocked before, it didn’t compare to the expressions on their faces now: Arcade’s jaw had gone so slack that his glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose, and Cass was staring at her with eyes so wide that Joan could clearly see white all the way around her pale irises.

        “ _The Malpais Legate,”_ Boone uttered, his hands falling slack at his sides. His eyes tore from Joshua to Joan, and he gazed at her in disbelief. Joan tried to meet his eyes, but found that she was unable to, casting them away as the color in her cheeks ripened to a darker shade of red.

        “You son of a bitch.”

        Joan’s eyes were quickly jerked back to Boone, and she yelped—he had lunged at Joshua, his square jaw set furiously as he smashed into him. She jumped back as Joshua swiftly reacted, twisting his shoulder to take the brunt of Boone’s attack before crashing to the ground, flat on his back as Boone landed on top of him. Joan immediately dashed forward, trying to pry Boone off of him.

        “Boone, no!” she shrieked, gritting her teeth as she tugged at Boone’s arm, which he had drawn back in a white knuckled fist.

        “You goddamn monster!” Boone roared, his beret askew. Joshua jerked his knee up into Boone’s stomach and Boone wheezed, his face wrenched into an animalistic grimace before he bought his fist down, smashing it into Joshua’s jaw. Joshua took the strike completely silently, but as soon as Boone had drawn his fist back again, Joan could see that Joshua’s eyes were frozen with malice.

        Arcade and Cass were standing locked and frozen, their wide eyes bouncing back and forth between Joan and the fight occurring before them.

        “Boone—” Joan called out before being cut off by him again.

        “You’re the entire reason I lost everything,” Boone growled. “My wife, my _child_ —”

        A gunshot tore the air and Joan gasped as Boone seemed to freeze on top of Joshua, his mouth sputtering and flapping soundlessly. A jagged hole had been ripped through his back, and Joan stared at the rapidly spreading flower of blood that seemed to sprout and grow out of it, blooming across his faded white shirt.

        Joshua was still lying beneath Boone; his bandaged hand was locked tightly around the snakeskin grip of his pistol, the tip of which was digging into Boone’s stomach. Boone began to lurch forward, slowly flailing his fists, and Joshua fired three more times, his pale blue eyes flatly detached.

        Boone gurgled before coughing; blood foamed out of his mouth before spraying onto the white bandages of Joshua’s face and leaving a thick trail of speckles. The spots quickly absorbed into the fabric, darkening and blurring.

        “Boone!” Cass shouted, finally torn out of her horrified reverie—she dashed forward, looking more distressed than Joan had ever seen her. Boone finally tumbled off of Joshua and his sunglasses clattered to the pavement, his pale eyes dazed and rapidly losing focus. As Cass rushed to catch him, Joan sprang toward Joshua.

        “Joshua,” she said, looping her hands under his shoulders and pulling him up. “Are you alright? Your shoulder—”

        “Don’t worry about _me_ ,” Joshua replied, his voice low and rough as he brought his bandaged hand to his face, swiping the back of his knuckles across his jaw. Joan helped him climb all the way back up to his feet before finally turning and looking at Cass, who was kneeling on the ground with Boone’s head in her lap. She was staring down at him with her mouth open, her eyes jumping back and forth from his face to the blood rapidly flowing out of his stomach.

        “ _Craig_ …” she whispered. Joan paled at the nearly undetectable break in her voice.

        Cass bowed her head further, causing her rawhide hat to obscure her face, but there was no mistaking the faint tremble that rippled across her shoulders.

        “Oh my God,” Arcade uttered, still standing frozen. He had been staring at Boone before his eyes jerked nervously to Joshua Graham, and then finally locking onto Joan.

        “How could you…” he murmured, staring at her as though he’d never seen her before. Joan squared her jaw.

        “Joshua was defending himself,” she shot back hotly.

        A flash of misery stabbed through her at the sight of Boone lying on the ground, staining the pavement of the Strip red with his blood, but she stood firmly by what she had said—Joshua was nearly twice Boone’s age, and clearly at a disadvantage.

        “Joshua hadn’t even done anything,” Joan continued, knotting her hands into pale fists as Arcade continued to stare at her. “Boone attacked him for no reason—we were here to talk!”

        “You _motherfucker_ ,” Cass growled. Joan tore her eyes away from Arcade and looked back at her, paling again. Cass was glaring up at Joshua Graham, her eyes burning with hatred. Below her, Boone had finally gone slack, for which Joan was morbidly grateful; at least he hadn’t suffered long.

        As fast as a whip, Cass leapt to her feet, jerking her arm up to her shoulder and unslinging the shotgun that resided there. The rest of the color fled out of Joan’s face and she dashed between Cass and Joshua, who quickly seized her arm and jerked her out of the way.

        “Get back!” Joshua commanded her, shielding her with his body as he drew his pistol again.

        “Yes Man!” Joan barked. “Restrain Cass and Arcade! Do it right now!”

        Unable to hesitate, Yes Man obeyed her orders—Cass looked up just in time for Yes Man to collide with her, knocking the shotgun out of her hands. It landed on the pavement before spinning away, and Cass shouted and thrashed furiously as Yes Man brought his long metallic arm around her waist, securing her to him.

        “I’m so sorry, Cass,” he apologized miserably before turning his attention to Arcade, who tried to dash away; he got no more than a few steps before Yes Man caught him, trapping him as he had captured Cass. With both of them secured against his sides, Yes Man finally turned back to Joan and Joshua.

        Joshua relaxed his grip on Joan’s arm before finally releasing her, and she took a moment to rub at the indents he’d left on her sleeve as Cass and Arcade shouted curses at her.

        “Are you alright? Joshua asked her. Joan looked up and gave him a small smile.

        “I’m fine, you didn’t hurt me,” she said. “Are you okay? Your face…”

        She reached up and trailed her pale fingers along Joshua’s jaw line, and he couldn’t hide the wince that tightened the wrinkles around his eyes. Joan frowned.

        “It’s just a punch,” Joshua assured her, speaking gruffly once again. “We both know I’ve endured far worse.”

        Joan caressed his cheek for a moment longer before turning to Cass and Arcade, who were still being firmly restrained by Yes Man.

        “I’m sorry it’s come to this,” she said. They fumed at her and began to speak over each other once more before Joan held her hand up, staring hawkishly at them.

        “I gave you my terms,” she continued coolly. “I want New Vegas. I’m not unreasonable, though—you can leave and take everyone with you. Take everything of worth or value, and I’ll supply you with however many caps you need to settle somewhere else. This land is _mine_. You can give it to me willingly, or blood can be spilled for it.”

        Cass glared balefully at Joan before craning her neck out as far as she could—with a productive cough she spat, and it struck Joan’s cheek; Joan reflexively mashed her eyes shut against it, grimacing at the warm slickness that dribbled down her jaw.

        After a moment she opened her eyes again before lowering her chin and returning Cass’s glare with intensity as she swiped the spittle off of her face with the back of her hand.

        “How dare you,” Joshua thundered. He lifted his arm, directing the aim of his pistol at Cass’s forehead. She didn’t bother to look at him, still maintaining her focused hatred on Joan.

        Joan held up her hand, stopping Joshua.

        “One last chance,” she said quietly, her eyes digging into Cass’s.

        “Fuck. You.”

        The words exited Cass’s mouth and Joshua raised his arm again, his pale blue eyes hard and unsympathetic.

        “Then reap what you have sown.”

        Joan thrust her hand between them again, and he twisted to look at her, his brows lowered with anger.

        “They don’t accept our offer. This is what we set out to do, and by God, we’re going to do it,” he said. “We gave them a chance—it’s hardly _our_ fault that they’re too stupid to listen to reason.”

        Joan continued to look at him before glancing back at Cass and Arcade.

        “I know,” she said. “But they were my friends.”

        She turned fully away from Joshua, looking at her former companions. Arcade was dangling in Yes Man’s arm, his lab coat swinging against his legs, his face still locked in an expression of uncertain fear. Cass continued to glare daggers at her.

        Joan watched them for a moment before lowering her hand to her hip and tugging the pistol Joshua had given her out of its holster.

        “And that makes them _my_ responsibility.”

        She raised her pistol, staring at Cass and Arcade as she brought her arms up and widened her stance, just as Joshua had taught her.

        “Ma’am…” Yes Man uttered thinly. “You really don’t have to do this.”

        Joan bit her lip, lowering her chin as she directed her aim at Cass’s forehead. Cass continued to stare back with complete and utter fearlessness.

        Joan lingered for a long moment as Joshua, Arcade, Cass, and Yes Man watched her. The sights of her pistol quivered back and forth with uncertainty.

        “Fuck… _fuck_ ,” Joan cursed, lowering her head and pinching her eyes shut as the tip of her pistol jerked downward. She sighed before lowering it fully and placing it back into her holster. Joshua was still staring at her as she finally looked up, facing Yes Man.

        “I can’t do it,” Joan said with a heave. “Yes Man, execute them.”

        “What?!” Yes Man shouted, jerking back on his wheel. The look of malice finally slid off of Cass’s face, and Arcade let out a horrified shriek.

        “That is an _order_ , Yes Man,” she said icily. “You can’t refuse me.”

        And he could not. Against what will he possessed, he cast Cass and Arcade onto the ground where they fell in a heap, immediately struggling to untangle themselves from each other.

        “I’m so sorry,” Yes Man said morosely, raising the metal barrels at the ends of his arms; they began to vibrate and whirr with activity as the lasers within them warmed up. “I really don’t want to do this—but I have to do whatever Joan tells me, even if I think it’s incredibly evil.”

        Joan pulled off her hat and ran her fingers through her hair as she watched them, staring down at her former friends with cold detachment; Joshua stood by her side, close enough that she could feel the fiery warmth of his body heat.

        “Joan, _no_!” Arcade shouted frantically, looking up and catching her eye. Before he had a chance to utter another word, Yes Man discharged the laser within his arm, and it struck Arcade in the side of the head, extinguishing the light behind his eyes instantly. With another shot, Cass was similarly dispatched; her face was frozen in revulsion as she struck the ground with a dull thud. Yes Man stood over them silently, the fixed smile on his screen at ghoulish odds with what had just transpired.

        “ _Oh my God_!”

        One of the patrons of the Strip screamed, noticing what had happened. Her scream immediately alerted the other few patrons lingering on the opposite end of the Strip and they began to panic and draw their own weapons.

        “This isn’t good,” Joshua said, looking around; already the doors of the casinos were beginning to fly open, allowing the people within to stampede outside to see what all the commotion was.

        “Yes Man!” Joan shouted, thinking quickly; he swung around to face her, miserably unenthusiastic.

        “Yes , Ma’am?”

        “Play an announcement over the intercom—tell the people of Vegas to immediately surrender if they want to live. Open all the gates, and tell the casino patrons to run if they don’t want to get caught in the crossfire. Do it now, and keep replaying it!”

        “Yes, Ma’am.”

        Joan finished her order just in time for Joshua to seize her arm again, dragging her toward the back of the nearest casino, Gomorrah.

        “No, not that one,” she said as bullets began to whiz past them; she jerked him in the opposite direction, toward the Lucky 38. Unfortunately Yes Man had sealed the great golden doors of it shut behind him, and there was no time pry them open and enter the casino for safety.

        “That one is closer!” Joshua shouted, wrenching his arm back. She turned toward him with a glare.

        “There’s a garden behind that casino, and it’s probably full of people right now!” she snapped. “I know this city better than you ever possibly could—listen to me if you want our children to have parents to come back to them!”

        Joshua’s eyes blazed furiously for a flash, but the mention of Nephi, Sariah, and Jerusha seemed to rein in his anger—he relented, and let Joan tug him toward the back of the Lucky 38, which contained only a portion of the immense metal wall of the city. As soon as they were out of the line of fire, Joan pulled her Pipboy up, switching the radio on.

        “They rejected our offer,” she barked into it. She was about to say more when Joshua seized her wrist, bringing it to his face.

        “There’s no time to lose—get in here and work fast and efficiently. If anyone tries to run out of the city, let them, but don’t hesitate to defend yourselves with deadly force. Joan and I are in the back of the city, we’ll meet with you when we can. Go with God,” Joshua said, speaking rapidly. He started speaking again, delivering the exact same message in Res, which Joan was able to understand in bits and pieces now.

        “Hoy, understood, Joshua,” a voice replied on the radio, and Joan could immediately hear commotion on the other end before the signal switched off.

        “I can’t deny that these things have some use,” Joshua said, releasing Joan’s wrist.

        “They’re uncomfortable as hell,” she replied, reaching over her shoulder and tugging off Randall Clark’s old rifle. She was about to dash to the edge of the building to take a look at what was going on when Joshua laid his hand on her wrist, stopping her.

        “Wait.”

        Joan watched as he quickly pulled apart the panels of his vest before shrugging out of it, standing with only his woven shirt to cover his chest.

        “What are you—”

        Joshua jerked her arm out before threading her hand through the armhole of his SLCPD vest, and then twisting her around so that he could drape it across her shoulders. As soon as her other arm was laced through, he spun her back around so that she was facing him. He quickly pressed the black panels of his vest together, overlapping them as tightly as he could on her tiny frame.

        Joan glanced down at the vest—which was so enormous on her that it hung down to her hips—before looking back up at Joshua Graham, frowning.

        “What are you doing, this is your—”

        “You’re only wearing civilian clothing,” Joshua interrupted her, stepping back and drawing his pistol out. With a practiced motion, he popped the magazine out before replacing it with a fresh one from one of the pouches on his belt. “It’s safer this way; you’ll have at least _some_ protection.”

        “Wha—but now you don’t have anything!” Joan said, flustering. She immediately moved to unfasten the vest but Joshua’s hand shot out, wrapping around her own with enough force that she winced. He leaned forward, speaking to her with determined severity.

        “Do not, under any circumstances, take that vest off,” he said, his eyes boring into hers. Joan fell obediently silent.

        “That vest has saved my life more times than I can count,” he continued, finally relaxing his grip on her hand. “You’re the mother of my children—and you’re young enough that you’re all but guaranteed to outlive me. Nephi, Sariah, and Jerusha will have to learn to live without me one day, but I cannot deprive them of a mother, not yet.”

        “ _Joshua_ …” Joan murmured, her chin crinkling. Joshua drew her into his arms for a quick hug, and Joan latched onto him, mashing her face into his chest.

        “Don’t worry about me—I’ve been doing this for decades, and I know that the Lord has guided me down the path that’s right for me,” he said, his voice muffled against her hair. “God willing, we’ll finish this together today.”

        With that, he drew away from her, and Joan snatched her rifle back up, double checking it to make sure that it was loaded before she and Joshua finally strode toward the front of the Lucky 38, preparing themselves for what lay ahead.


	30. Destroy Everything You Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any familiar faces in this chapter have been used with express permission; a tremendous thank you to everyone involved <3

Chapter 30: Destroy Everything You Touch

_You only have to look behind you, at who's underlined you; destroy everything you touch today_

_Destroy me this way_

        As they approached the street, Joan dropped to a crouch, her full black skirt following her like a shadow as she crept forward. Joshua dropped down behind her.

        “Be careful,” he warned. Joan drew her hand up before flapping it dismissively in the air.

        “You’re not the only one that knows what they’re doing.”

        She pulled off her desperado hat and quickly peeked around the corner of the Lucky 38.

        There seemed to be mass confusion on the Strip, which suited her just fine—though there were still patrons warily scanning the area with their guns drawn, most of the crowd had gathered around the bodies of her former companions. Beside them was Yes Man, or at least the downed Securitron that had once contained him: it was riddled with bullet holes and the screen was shattered, revealing its wired innards.

        Joan poked her head out as far as she could, straining her ears to hear the murmurings of the crowd.

        “ _Did it go rogue_?”

        “ _I saw it attack them! I thought these goddamn things were here to protect us_!”

        “ _But I saw a couple people running away from it, and they had guns_ —”

        Above them the announcement system of the Strip crackled to life, and Joan jerked her chin up; the Strip fell silent, listening to the message that began to play.

        “Citizens and patrons of New Vegas,” Yes Man began; though his voice was booming as usual, it had a curiously flat hint to it. “I am _compelled_ to tell you that the city is under a hostile takeover. If you want to survive, either immediately surrender to our assailants or run away from them. _Supposedly_ our assailants will let anyone that decides to run go free, although the veracity of that statement is questionable at best. If you happen see a very short woman in a long black skirt and hat with a man that’s covered in bandages, you should _probably_ run away from them, because they are armed and incredibly dangerous.”

        Joan stared up at the enormous spokes of the Lucky 38, seething as the gate leading to Freeside swung open; the people on the Strip immediately began to scream and flee towards it.

        “Yes Man, you goddamn traitor,” she hissed through gritted teeth. Joshua was similarly agitated.

        “I thought the cursed thing could only do what you told it to,” he said accusingly. Joan sighed, pulling back and shoving her desperado hat onto her head again.

        “He _technically_ fucking did,” Joan said before pursing her lips together. “I didn’t tell him _not_ to tell everybody what we look like. Fuck.”

        Joshua scowled at her for a moment before directing his gaze up at the spokes of the building, as she had done.

        “I knew those things couldn’t be trusted. They can only follow the direct letter of the law, not the spirit of it,” he said.

        “I know,” Joan replied, lifting her rife again; at the announcement—which had, as she had ordered, begun to loop and play itself again—she stood up once more, preparing herself.

        “There’s no point in worrying about it now though. We just have to adapt and make the best of it. A shitty roll of the dice, but what can you do,” she finished.

        “Crudely put,” Joshua said quietly, pulling himself to his feet to join her and drawing his own pistol again. “But not inaccurate. Fine, we’ll adapt.”

        He paused, considering her.

        “I can’t hide what I look like. You could possibly get away with it if we separated… but I think that would be an incredibly foolish idea,” he said, his voice growing resigned.

        Joan gave him a reassuring smile as she pushed her glasses further up the bridge of her nose.

        “You said we’d do this together, remember? Let’s get out there. It’s not like we haven’t done this before.”

        “… I suppose you’re right,” Joshua said, lifting his chin again; Joan saw the familiar spark in his eyes, and the two finally set out from behind the casino.

        A herd of terrified casino patrons—many of them in various states of undress at this time of the morning—were stampeding toward the gates of the Strip, shrieking and shoving past each other. _Fortuitous_ , Joan thought for a moment, before someone in the crowd noticed them.

        “ _Hey_!” A tall man with long black sideburns—one of the casino dealers, judging from his bold red vest and tie—was pointing at them. “It’s them—it’s the fucking people from the announcement! Get them!”

        “Mother _fucker_ ,” Joan groaned; immediately a portion of the crowd directed its attention to her and Joshua as the rest continued its frenzied escape from the Strip.

        Without hesitation, Joan drew her rifle up and pulled the trigger, not aiming for anyone in the throng in particular; a short and curvy ghoul woman collapsed to the ground, thrashing and shrieking in agony. She was wearing a sheath-like cocktail dress, which was rapidly being painted red with the blood that flowed from the hole in her withered chest. The crowd around her screamed again before stampeding with greater urgency through the gate—some of them were so desperate to escape further gunfire that they trampled the woman, quickly drowning out her anguished cries of terror.

        The moments that succeeded the trampling of the ghoul woman ran together in a blur for Joan; Joshua delivered his own shots into the crowd, and a bold number of them returned fire, shouting with rage and panic. Joshua and Joan stayed as close together as they could, afraid to lose track of each other in the pandemonium.

        From the opposite end of the city, the tribals were carving their own bloody path towards the Strip—the Kings had come out in full force to defend their home, as had the patrons and owners of the Atomic Wrangler and the Silver Rush. The doctors within the Old Mormon Fort had immediately thrown open the great wooden gates, taking in the wounded as the mercenaries that defended it thrust themselves into the battle, sending electric green bolts of plasma into the intermingled crowd of tribal warriors and fleeing patrons.

        “Are you alright?” Joshua barked at Joan; a black haired woman who stood only a few inches taller than Joan herself had rushed her, and the two engaged in a brief scuffle before Joshua turned his gun on her. With a yell, she crumpled to the ground, peppered with wounds that quickly began to soak into the bright blue serape around her shoulders.

        “I’m okay,” Joan replied breathlessly as Joshua grabbed her by the hand and helped her to her feet. She was rather grateful for Nephi, Sariah, and Jerusha just then—though still unremarkable, she was much physically stronger than she had been before, after years of hauling her children around and running after them.

        She took a moment to rake her palm across her face; the other woman had delivered a sharp jab to her mouth, right across the teeth. Joan spat onto the pavement—her saliva was streaked with minute veins of blood.

        “Teeth are all still there,” she commented wryly. “Can’t be too bad.”

        Joshua was in the middle of returning her sardonic chuckle when Joan’s eyes shot open wide, and she pitched forward with a shrill scream.

        Joshua gasped, the sound muffled by his bandages as he caught her; Joan squeezed her eyes shut, whimpering and shuddering as Joshua dragged her away from Fremont Street—they had finally managed to escape the chaos of the Strip—and into one of the dingy alleyways that crisscrossed the city.

        “What happened?” Joshua demanded, looking her up and down with alarm.

        “ _My back_ ,” Joan gasped. Joshua immediately spun her around, and there it was: nestled into the armored fabric that protected her was the blunted tip of a bullet.

        Joan grimaced as Joshua pressed his charred fingers into the dent in the fabric, plucking out the spent bullet before casting it away onto the sidewalk.

        “Thank God,” he murmured. “If you hadn’t been wearing my vest… I don’t even want to fathom what would have happened. You certainly wouldn’t be able to walk again, at the very least. How bad is it? Can you continue fighting?”

        Joan took a shaky inhale; her back felt as though the monorail had smashed into it at top speed. Joshua stood with her as she composed herself for a moment before she finally looked up, meeting his eyes again with resolve.

        “I can keep going,” she said, ignoring the pain in her back; after three children, she knew she could endure far worse than this. “We’re finishing this _together_.”

        Joshua gave her a quick nod before they dashed back to the street.

        The battle had been raging for a few hours now and was fortunately beginning to show signs of finally slowing: the streets were littered with the corpses of the Kings, as well as the various homeless and destitute of Freeside. There were dozens of other bodies as well: people who had been in the city to see the doctors of the Old Mormon Fort, the well dressed patrons of the Strip, and other various travelers.

        “It’s a damn shame it had to come to this,” Joan said, stepping gingerly over the body of a tall man wearing a trench coat. His full brown beard was streaked with grey hairs and matted with blood. “So many pointless deaths…”

        “I know,” Joshua replied solemnly. “But they made their choice, just as we’ve made ours. It was a nice thought that we could have talked to them, but I suppose I should have known better—there’s usually only one way that situations like these resolve themselves.”

        Joan cast her eyes to the ground again. Wedged into the gutter lining the street was a red haired woman, one of her pale freckled arms thrust out lifelessly, as though she was reaching for something. Sprawled on top of her was the same tall black haired man that had first called attention to Joshua and Joan. His back was riddled with bullet holes; from the looks of it, he’d fallen trying to protect the red headed woman. Joan wondered if they’d known each other before turning her attention back to Joshua.

        “The least we can do is give them a proper funeral,” she said. It brought her no joy to slaughter the citizens of the city she’d once loved, but she knew that any price was worth the future she was securing for her children, and their children that would come after them.

        A small, proud smile crossed her face— it seemed she would leave her legacy on this land after all.

        “Of course,” Joshua replied. “But that’s a thought for later—we’re not done yet.”

        Ahead of them, the tribal warriors were still waging a bloody battle, this time with the members of the Followers of the Apocalypse. Many of the doctors were still tending to the wounded, but upon realizing that the people of New Vegas were rapidly losing the war for the city, a number of them had drawn their own weapons, determined to fight. Joshua and Joan both rushed forward to meet them.

        The Followers of the Apocalypse fought surprisingly savagely—a large chunk of the afternoon was devoted to attempting to break the choke point they had created at the gate of the Old Mormon Fort. They weren’t afraid to fight with everything they had either: they had begun to lob grenades into the frenzied crowd of tribals, killing broad swaths of them and forcing the others to scatter in retreat.

        “I thought these people were supposed to be pacifists,” Joshua commented scathingly, taking potshots into the Fort from their position on Fremont Street. Joan had perched on top of a rusted prewar vehicle, and was sniping off as many of the Followers as she could.

        “I used to be one of them,” Joan replied, taking aim—she had long adjusted to the slightly off center sights of her rifle—before delivering a bullet into the bespectacled head of one of the scientists inside the Fort, who had just drawn her arm back to throw a crudely made Molotov into the fray.

        Joshua took a moment to glance at Joan out of the corner of his eye.

        “You never told me that before.”

        “It wasn’t relevant,” she replied, squeezing her trigger again. She had feared that any connection to Edward Sallow—no matter how insignificant—would make Joshua wary of associating with her. She glanced at him anxiously.

        Joshua considered her for a moment before the wrinkles around his eyes gathered together; she knew that underneath his bandages he was giving her a rare, dry smile.

        “Naturally,” he said. Then the two lost themselves in the fight for a while, as they focused on driving back the Followers of the Apocalypse.

        “Shit,” Joan murmured after some time. She had shoved another magazine into her rifle before sweeping her hand fruitlessly by her side; there were no more spare magazines to be had, and the rest of the ammunition she had brought with her from Zion was secured at their camp up in the mountains. She was certain more could be scavenged locally—from either Mick and Ralph’s old store or the Gun Runners, if they were even still up and running—but there was no time to search for any.

        She tuned out the rest of the battle as best as she could, holding her breath and focusing with all the concentration she could muster—she needed to make these last rounds truly count. She was just capturing the head of one of the doctors—who was hefting a substantial laser rifle in his hands—in her sights when a roar caused her to jump and prematurely fire the shot, wasting it.

        “What the hell—”

        She looked over and saw Joshua Graham bending over, clutching his side. Blood was pooling around his scarred fingertips.

        “Joshua!”

        Without hesitation, Joan abandoned the rifle she’d recovered from Randall Clark before leaping off the top of the rusted car and dashing to his side. Beneath the bandages that obscured his face, Joshua’s jaw was set, and his eyes had darkened, as though a switch behind them had been flipped.

        “Joshua, are you—”

        She didn’t get a chance to finish before he’d thrust his hand out, shoving her in the chest hard enough that she tumbled to the pavement. She looked up at Joshua with alarm.

        With complete disregard for his—or seemingly anyone else’s—safety, Joshua Graham charged forward, slamming a fresh magazine into the butt of his pistol; Joan watched in awe as he forced his way through the gates of the Old Mormon Fort, leaving a trail of dazed tribals shoved to the ground in his wake.

        Joan scrambled to her feet before pushing through the sea of men and following Joshua’s footsteps, until she finally managed to cross the threshold of the Fort.

        She gasped; Joshua had accomplished in mere minutes what the tribals had been trying to do for the last three hours.

        Joshua Graham stood in the center of the Fort, his broad shoulders heaving as he reloaded his pistol again, surrounded by the corpses of almost a dozen Followers doctors. Joan stared down at them with her jaw hanging slack.

        One of the doctors close to Joan began to stir, groaning and pinching her heavily lidded eyes shut. A long, jagged scar bisected her chin and lip before disappearing under the tangled brown hair that clung to her bloodied cheek. She scraped her hands against the earth, trying to pull herself upright.

        Joan withdrew her own pistol before delivering a shot to the woman’s forehead; she immediately fell back to the ground, her pale eyes open once more, fixed and empty as a fresh wave of blood began to stream down her face.

        Joan quickly scanned the rest of the people strewn across the ground, looking for any other survivors: the rest of the bodies were slack and lifeless. Satisfied that there were no potential threats, Joan finally charged toward Joshua, holstering her pistol.

        “Are you okay?” she demanded, arriving beside him. He had lurched over again, clutching his side. Blood had spread across his midsection, seeping into both the fabric of his shirt and his bandages, causing them to stick together.

        “I’ll be fine,” he said darkly. “Did I kill them all?”

        “Yes,” Joan said. “Stay right here.”

        Joshua did as she commanded and Joan dashed into one of the tents. Within it was a groaning casino patron, his suit jacket torn and covered with blood. Joan ignored him as she rummaged through a chest, unearthing a package of unopened bandages. She piled her arms full before rushing back to Joshua, who had begun to lean to the side, his hand pressed into the bullet wound again.

        “I’m here,” Joan said; she quickly deposited her package of gauze to the ground before unbuttoning Joshua’s shirt and tugging it open to inspect the crater where the bullet had passed through. She did her best to assess the damage despite her lack of medical knowledge.

        “Is it still in there?” she asked nervously.

        “No,” Joshua replied. “It hit so close to the edge of my side that it passed straight through. If I had been a little luckier, it would have just nicked me. Still… it could be much worse, and I thank God for that.”

        Joshua held his open shirt back, looking down with displeasure as he lifted the thin garment beneath it, exposing his bandaged stomach and side.

        “I’ve had this garment shirt for almost fifteen years now,” he grumbled. “Now I have to have another made.”

        Joan glanced up at him as she peeled the shredded bits of fabric and gauze away from his torso, preparing to cover him with the fresh bandages she had found.

        “ _That’s_ what you’re worried about?”

        “… Just get on with it.”

        Joan did as he asked, and he patiently lifted his arms as she wound the clean bandages around his side, taking her time to make sure that he was thoroughly covered. As soon as she was finished he stepped back, buttoning his shirt up and tucking it back into his jeans. The rage had departed from his expression, leaving him tired looking in the hot afternoon sun.

        Joan cast her eyes around the Old Mormon Fort and the streets beyond it; now that the battle for the Fort had been won, the sounds of gunfire and screaming within Freeside were finally starting to die down.

        “That’s enough for today,” Joan said, seizing Joshua’s arm. He looked down at her.

        “We’re not nearly finished yet,” he said. “There are still the other towns that you told me about—the north side, and the west side, if I recall correctly.”

        “That can wait,” Joan said, tugging Joshua towards the gate. “Hell, I’d be shocked if most of them weren’t part of today’s fight. It’s not like this was subtle, and they’re only a few blocks away. If there’s anyone else left, the tribes can deal with them.”

        Joshua resisted her once again, and Joan turned to him, her eyes flashing.

        “ _Joshua_ ,” she said, forcing him to pause. “Nephi, Sariah, and Jerusha. You aren’t just a war chief anymore. They need us. They need _you_.”

        At her words, the tension finally unwound itself from Joshua’s shoulders, and his eyes returned to the pale warmth that Joan had grown accustomed to over the last several years.

        “I’m sorry,” he apologized, joining her as she walked out of the Old Mormon Fort. They stepped over the body of a woman lying in the street: a long scar stretched from temple to temple across her forehead, almost like a crown. Her dark eyes stared glassily at the sky above, and Joan was reminded of one last thing.

        “But you are right,” she said. “ _I’m_ not finished yet.”

        She turned down Fremont Street and Joshua followed her; together they wound their way through the mounds of bodies that piled the pavement and gutters, approaching the Strip.

***

        Joan and Joshua stepped into the casino of the Lucky 38, and Joan immediately coughed from the thick film of dust that still clung to everything inside.

        “Nothing’s changed here, that’s for damn sure,” she said, leading Joshua to the elevator. He followed her, looking around at the slot machines and cash registers with cool disinterest before they stepped through the doors that were emblazoned with the sigil of Robert House.

        The elevator ride passed silently; a few minutes later it pinged, announcing their arrival in the penthouse. The doors slid open and Joan inhaled.

        It smelled exactly as it had nearly a decade ago, and for a moment Joan stepped through time: she saw the many conversations she’d had with Yes Man as they prepared for the battle for Hoover Dam; she saw Veronica walking out through these very doors, shocked and saddened and enraged; she saw herself as she was when she was twenty-two, before she had donned the suit and tie she’d become famous for, boldly deciding that she would rule New Vegas better than Robert House ever could.

        “I know you’re here, Ma’am.”

        A voice called to her from the wall of terminals that stood in the room adjacent to the lobby, and Joan was jerked back to the present.

        She and Joshua quickly made their way down the stairs, and finally she stood before Yes Man. He was looking down at them, his screen stuck in its perpetual smile.

        “I did _just_ as you asked—not that I can refuse you,” Yes Man said.

        Joan met his robotic gaze, her lips curving.

        “Then I trust that you’re ready to accept more orders.”

        “… As always, Ma’am. I’m literally incapable of denying you, no matter how much I want to.”

        Joan marched to the panel and looked squarely up at Yes Man, who seemed to radiate a resigned sort of unhappiness.

        “I need you to destroy all of the Securitrons,” she said. “Not just set them offline. Reactivate them and take them out to… let’s see…”

        She paused, deciding what part of the Mojave she could live without. Finally she slapped her fist into her palm.

        “Clark field. There’s nothing out there anyway, and what little there is has already been irradiated. Every single Securitron in the Mojave, Yes Man. _Every single one_. Dispatch them to the plant at Clark Field, and then activate their self destruct sequences.”

        There was a short pause before Yes Man sighed.

        “Yes, Ma’am. It will take approximately three hours to gather them all there.”

        “That’s fine,” Joan said. “Buzz me on the Pipboy when they’re ready.”

        She turned away from the computers and faced Joshua, who was still clutching his side, taking short, uncomfortable breaths.

        “Let’s get you cleaned up properly,” she said, leading him to the bath.

        They spent the next few hours scrubbing themselves clean and discussing their plans for the future. Joan helped Joshua bandage himself back up—as well as return his SLCPD vest to him—and it seemed that no time at all had passed before Yes Man’s voice sparked on Joan’s Pipboy.

        “As much as I hate to tell you this, Ma’am, it’s done. Every single Securitron has been destroyed, just as you asked. You know, you really could have done this nine years ago in the Fortification Hill bunker and saved us all a lot of trouble.”

        Joan and Joshua had been sitting in the plush white chairs that stood in the lobby of the penthouse, nursing their various injuries while enjoying the first food and water they’d had since the morning. At the sound of Yes Man’s voice, Joan sprang to her feet, and Joshua followed her back into the room of terminals, where they stood side by side, facing him.

        “Well done, Yes Man,” Joan said. “I know you’re not stupid. I’m sure you can guess what I’m going to tell you to do next.”

        “I’m sure it involves me deactivating myself,” Yes Man responded dryly.

        “Can you do that? I know that years ago it wasn’t even possible, because you could just switch to another Securitron. What about now?”

        “I suppose I can, although there might still be traces of me on the other terminals across the Strip. You would have to destroy every single terminal and computer within the Strip and Freeside to be sure,” Yes Man replied before pausing; Joan could sense him staring at her with dawning revelation.

        “… Which is exactly what you’re planning to do, isn’t it, Ma’am?”

        “Yes, it is. I’m going to raze this entire city to the ground, so that my family—my _tribe_ —can start brand new.”

        There was a long, dense pause as Joan and Yes Man stared at each other.

        “Why not use that Platinum Chip in your pocket then,” Yes Man said, scathing bitterness creeping into his voice. “I know you’re still carrying it. It was always your big backup plan, after all. The bomb is still attached to the reactor—even after all these years, I never told Cass or Boone or Arcade or anyone else about it, just as you _ordered_. Why not just go ahead and detonate it? You could wipe out everything and everyone, including yourselves. It wouldn’t be all that beneficial for your _tribe_ , I’m sure, but since you’re so darned determined to destroy absolutely everything, you might as well not leave the job half finished.”

        Joan stared up at Yes Man, her jaw slack; he had never spoken so disrespectfully to her in her entire life. After a moment she bowed her head and reached into her pocket.

        From within it she produced the Platinum Chip. Yes Man was correct. Even after all these years, she still carried it with her every single day. It had been no more than a few feet from her person at all times for nearly a decade, and she had even kept it close during each birth she’d endured. She lifted her left hand, looking down at the Pipboy strapped to her forearm.

        Though weathered and rusted now, the slot carved into the metal casing was still there, just wide enough to allow the Platinum Chip to be fed into it. If she pushed the Chip through that slot, it would have the immediate effect of locking every single gate in the city before activating a ten minute timer; at the end of that timer the bomb that she had strapped to the nuclear reactor in the bowels in the Lucky 38 would detonate, wiping out the entire city, as well as whatever poor souls happened to be trapped within it. A plan she had concocted to thwart Caesar’s Legion once upon a time, in case the second battle for Hoover Dam had gone badly.

        Ghosts of a bygone era, now.

        She snorted before lowering her wrist and looking up at Yes Man again.

        “You’re right… I have been holding on to the past.”

        With that, she twisted and hurled the Platinum Chip into the adjoining chamber, and it smacked the ground before skidding and disappearing underneath one of the chairs. She turned back to the wall of terminals, her lips curved with a small, severe smile.

        “Deactivate yourself, Yes Man.”

        Yes Man stared down at her for a beat before his screen flickered black.

        He was gone.

        All that was left was the reflection of Joan and Joshua Graham in the darkness of the screens, their scarred fingers threading together as they leaned against each other.


	31. Epilogue

Epilogue

_Would you leave me if I told you what I've done? And would you need me if I told you what I've become?_

Three Years Later

        Joan Graham was sitting and rocking gently in the shade cast by the overhang of the house she shared with Joshua and her children, the fourth of which was suckling her breast, little Esther’s hands curled into minute fists as she fed. Esther had been born less than a year ago, just around the time that their tribe had finally finished razing to the ground what had been formerly known as New Vegas.

        Canaan.

        That was the name that Joshua had settled on, when the last of the debris had finally been hauled away, disposed in the lands east of Clark Field.

        Though the various peoples of their tribe still carried their individual traditions and languages with them, they were now united under a single banner as Canaanites. Joan thought it had been fitting: they were of New Canaan, but the people that made up their tribe were descended from something older and wilder, from before even the Old World. There was truly nothing new about any of them, much less the spiritual tradition that Joshua was determined to uphold and preserve.

        Joan continued to breastfeed Esther as she watched Joshua stand before a group of conservatively dressed young men—still boys really—preparing them for the first ever mission of the Canaanites. Though she couldn’t hear what he was saying from this distance, there was no mistaking the happy animation in his shoulders and arms as he gesticulated while speaking to them.

        Over the past year they had finally been able to devote real manpower and energy toward building houses for the people in their new land, and just about everyone had been settled into their new homes. No longer did anyone live in tents or lean-tos; using a fraction of the substantial fortune that Robert House had left in his death, Joan and Joshua Graham had arranged deals with the caravans coming out of California to haul in wood, building supplies, and tools for them. They repurposed what they could from the old Vegas buildings, but most of the materials were falling apart and so thoroughly polluted with the stench of cigarette smoke and alcohol that it had been easier to just start fresh.

        With every able bodied adult putting effort towards the construction of Canaan, the work had gone quickly—they had even been able to begin work on a Temple, which Joshua oversaw personally, his pale eyes bright with anticipation. The Temple was an aspect of their religion that Joan had only heard about through him; they already had a church, which serviced the members of their faith every Sunday, so she wasn’t entirely sure what the purpose of a Temple was. Still, she could tell that it brought much joy to Joshua, so she looked forward to learning more about the rest of the ancient traditions and rituals of his old tribe.

        With their home settled and safe, Joshua had finally seen fit to prepare a group of young men for the journey that he himself had once embarked on: a mission. He and Joan had spent months preparing for this; with Joan’s guidance, they had developed an itinerary for the young men, planning out their journey and establishing a network of safe havens where the young men could rest and recuperate. Joan also had the idea of establishing a rule for the young missionaries to use a courier service to mail letters back home each week—not only did she and Joshua want to promote a strong connection to family and tribe, Joan wanted to ensure that they were safe and accounted for, certain that—despite the best efforts of everyone involved—they were bound to encounter danger at some point.

        She didn’t tell Joshua—although she suspected that he was already aware of this—that she had also wanted to ensure that none of the missionaries would abandon the group, and fall in with any undesirable people. None of the young men standing before Joshua today displayed any of the promise that Joshua had possessed, but Joan didn’t want to take any risks or chances.

        As if he could hear her thinking about him, Joshua Graham turned to look at her. Even from this distance, she could see the grooves around his eyes deepen as he gave her a smile before turning back to the young men. From within a case that had been standing beside his snakeskin shoes, he withdrew six .45 auto pistols, one for each of the missionaries. They accepted their parting gifts with their heads bowed in reverence before giving a wave to him and departing.

        With a warm smile, Joan stared at Joshua as he stood with his hands on his hips as he watched them leave, his broad shoulders thrust back with pride.

        This was everything that she had ever wanted.

        The cost of achieving this was high, exorbitantly so: she had struck her friends down in cold blood, she had murdered innocents, and she had ordered the deaths of thousands without a second thought. She was happy to stand by and watch as Joshua had done the same over the years; she knew that he had taken hundreds of lives himself, violently and cruelly, people whose only crimes had been refusing to do as he demanded and convert to their faith.

        She had turned her back on everything and everyone that she had ever held dear.

        But as Joshua pulled her into his arms every night, their children safe and secure nearby in their own bedrooms, Joan could only think one thing:

**_I never want to fix myself_ ** **. _It feels good to be broken_.**

_I'd do anything to make you stay_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is folks--the end of No Light, and the end of a story that came to me through much pain, strife, and tears. I loved writing this story, but at the same time it has been... taxing. Still, every singe word was utterly worth it, and I hope that you've enjoyed it as much as I have. For as difficult as this fic has been, it brought me a lot of cathartic joy to explore the darkest possible ending and choices for my beloved Joan, and to continue to do my best to learn from my own errors.
> 
> I have never--and certainly will never--consider this Joan's true story. If this is your first time joining me, then I encourage you to have a look at Joan's canonical story, Learnin' the Blues: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1036452
> 
> Thank you so so much to everyone that's accompanied and supported me along this journey. This fic has been nearly a year in the making, and while I'm sad to see it come to an end, I'm delighted to finally be able to share it. I love all of you, and thank you again, from the bottom of my heart <3
> 
> As usual, the list of songs used for the chapter titles, and the name of the fic itself:
> 
> No Light, No Light – Florence and the Machine  
> Better Strangers – Royal Blood  
> Hole in Your Heart – Royal Blood  
> I Walk the Line – Johnny Cash  
> Fire – Barns Courtney  
> ‘Til You’re Numb – La B  
> A Pain That I’m Used To – Depeche Mode  
> Praise the Lord and Pass The Ammunition – Kay Kyser  
> How High – Welshly Arms  
> Black Roses – MISSIO  
> Take Me Out – Franz Ferdinand  
> Suffocation Blues – Black Pistol Fire  
> Control - Garbage  
> I See You - MISSIO  
> I’ll Take the Rain – R.E.M.  
> Come As You Are – Blakwall   
> Stand By Your Man – Tammy Wynette  
> Even If It Hurts – Sam Tinnesz  
> Kashmir – Led Zeppelin  
> Friends – Brick + Mortar  
> Can’t Stop Me Now – Oh the Larceny  
> Destruction – Joywave  
> When the Levee Breaks – Led Zeppelin  
> Ready For the Devil – Vision Vision  
> Sugar – Garbage   
> Stand By Me – Ben E. King  
> Lovesong – Snake River Conspiracy  
> I Want It All – Queen   
> Level – Black Pistol Fire  
> Used to the Darkness – Des Rocs  
> Destroy Everything You Touch – Ladytron 
> 
> To see more of me, and definitely much more of Joan, Joshua, and the extended family, as well as other shenanigans, feel free to have a look at my tumblr, where I post art, doodles, and many other silly things: https://yesjejunus.tumblr.com/


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